More Than This
by FullMetal Alchemistress
Summary: Story starts when Cap falls from the Helicarrier. Bucky has a new mission-to find out who he is and where he belongs. With his memories slowly returning the longer he is out of cryostasis, the more he realizes what he has to do. Summary will change as the story progresses and will contain other Avengers. BuckyxOC
1. Chapter 1

_I feel like I've been reading the same plotline over and over and over again for everything regarding Bucky after Winter Soldier. So here's my take on everything. I know more about Bucky from the comics, but I LOVE his back story in the movies. I think I like it more than the comics, to be honest. Anyways, gonna put my own spin on it instead of it being simply Bucky-meets-a-girl-who-helps-him-remember-and-he-hits-her-and-remembers-and-they-fall-in-love. It's not really that, but that's the plot lines I feel like I've been reading all week…._

**Chapter 1**

"I'm with you till the end of the line."

Something inside the Winter Soldier froze—more than just his actions. He stared at the mission is his hands with wide eyes. In that moment, his head felt clearer—freer. Like it was _his _mind_. _For the first time in a long time. But in this single moment of hesitation, the ground beneath them shuddered. On pure survival instinct, the Winter Soldier grasped a heavy metal I beam still attached to the sip as the ground gave out.

As he watched his mission—no, he had been more than that to him in his life, once upon a time—his once _friend _drop into the Potomac, it was like he was Steve back in 1942 on that train, watching his best friend fall. Debris crashed in after him and suddenly Captain America was no longer visible. He would be left to die in the water. No.

Without a second thought—or even a _first _thought—the Winter Soldier let go of the ship and dove down into the water. The second he hit the water, a pain shot up from his left arm, a vision of a bloodied left arm next to him on a gurney springing to his mind for a split second. But he pushed down the pain and swam down to the blur of red white and blue, easily seeable even in the murky waters.

The Winter Soldier reached out with his "good arm," ironically the metal one, and began to pull Steve's body towards the surface. He gripped the front of his uniform tightly and somehow made it to the shore with his flesh arm pinned to his chest and dead weight occupying the other. But the feeling of protection was more like how his missions felt. Protecting Steve right now from drowning felt like his mission.

He dropped the man on his back and took a step away from him, eyes scanning the bloodied suit. Bullet holes dotted the fabric, the stains of blood making them easy to find. _I know him_, he kept chanting in his head, willing the repressed memories to surface at his command, to which they did not oblige. But he didn't dare touch Steve. The wounds, the bullet holes—_he _inflicted them.

Steve coughed weakly, water spilling from his lips. He was alive. The Winter Soldier backed away slowly, watching the slow rise and fall of Steve's chest. There would be others looking for him. They would check the riverbanks first. He needed to leave before they came. There would be no forgiveness, especially if he stayed.

Worst of all, he knew in the back of his mind somehow, that Steve might actually forgive him—and he wasn't ready for that. Slowly he'd been remembering things that had been shocked from his conscious mind. Mostly his other missions, but some of his family. Some of Steve. He knew him.

He began to reach up with his flesh hand to pull the wet hair away from his eyes, but the searing pain in his shoulder stopped. The world around him faded away and suddenly he was standing in an alley a lifetime ago. Steve, smaller, frailer, was in the corner of his eye, slumped against the wall breathing heavily.

He focused back on the man in his hand, a well-placed punch knocking him out cold. He let him fall to the ground in a heap next to two others. "You alright?" he muttered, taking a step over the bodies towards his friend.

"Yeah," Steve wheezed.

"No you're not," he muttered, reaching down to pull Steve off the ground. The minute he gripped Steve's shoulder to pull him up, he noticed a second too late that it didn't look right. Steve let out a gasp of pain and jerked away from the touch.

"Okay," Steve grunted, pushing himself up off the ground with his good arm. "But I think I dodged an asthma attack."

"You've got a dislocated shoulder, Steve," he rolled his eyes. "C'mon, punk. Hospital is this way." He led the way out of the alley, Steve's battered arm cradled against his chest.

"Jerk," Steve grumbled. "But thanks."

The Winter Soldier blinked and suddenly he was back in the woods next to the Potomac, halfway back to the city. He glanced over his shoulder towards the sounds of boat motors and spotted a small rescue boat making its way towards Steve. Good, he thought, content knowing for sure they had found him.

He turned his back and began to focus entirely on himself for the time being. He needed medical help with his arm and there was no way in hell he was going back to Hydra. Not right now. He needed to figure things out first. But priority number one was his arm. He glanced down at his waterlogged clothes.

Stopping at the edge of the woods, he carefully removed the thicker black top, then thick black turtle neck, gritting his teeth through the pain. Although he was now shirtless, hoped he could pass off as an officer or even a SHIELD agent in his black cargo pants, holsters, and combat boots. A quick inventory revealed he'd lost all his guns, but not all his knives. _For persuasion, _he told himself as he made his way towards what looked like a hospital—at least, it was where all the ambulances were headed.

"I require medical attention for my arm," he grunted once he'd made his way into the lobby. The doctor in a white coat behind the nurse's desk looked up, eyes immediately draw to the gleaming metal one of his left. He narrowed his eyes. "My right arm."

"Oh," she managed. "Uhm, are—are you a SHIELD agent?"

"Doesn't SHIELD have their own medical staff?" a nurse muttered next to him as she leaned over the counter and swapped files.

"Well, considering half the building ended up in the Potomac about an hour ago—" the doctor said.

"—I think so did he," the second murmured with a glance in his direction.

"Look," he snapped, voice low and dangerous. "Can you reset my arm, or not?"

After a second the Doctor nodded. "We don't have available rooms, so it's going to be in a hallway somewhere, wherever we can find room."

The Winter Soldier said nothing, but followed him down the chaotic hallways filled with injured people on gurneys, children crying, families torn. The second hand destruction he'd caused in his pursuit of both the important SHIELD agent, and Steve. But he couldn't look away.

Weren't these the people he'd fought in the war to protect? What had happened? What had driven him to become _this_? This, this _assassin_? He knew that man, Steve. He knew Steve had the answers.

As they walked down the halls, people begged the doctor to stop and help them. They begged for his attention. Most of them were being tended to by nurses—wounds like that needed no diagnosis. They needed stitches, bandages, and antiseptic. These people didn't want a _doctor_. They wanted a miracle.

The Doctor stopped at an empty gurney and motioned for the Winter Soldier to hop on.

"You say you need your arm reset?" The Doctor came over and began to gently prod at his shoulder. "I think we can skip the x-ray—that would take hours due to the wait. I'm fairly certain it's a common dislocation. I'll be right back."

Being the place where all the wounded went, the Winter Soldier was surprised he had not been recognized yet. Especially with the arm. But then again, in a place like the hospital, the focus was on helping people. They didn't notice anyone but their own problems.

"So you work for SHIELD," the doctor muttered when he came back with a needle. "Is that how you lost that arm?"

"I lost it in the war," he grunted. "What's that?" He felt his muscles tense up, muscle memory afraid of doctors coming at him. A vision of a scientist in a white coat hovering over him, grinning, telling him what a valuable asset he'd be, flashed before his eyes and he slammed back against the wall.

The doctor, noticing the reaction, smiled kindly. "Anesthetic. I won't use it if you don't want me to, but it will hurt like hell if I don't."

"Don't." He was pretty sure it wouldn't work on him anyway. Whatever the scientists did to him, he knew anesthetics didn't work.

"Alright." He put the cap back on the needle and dropped it into his lab coat pocket. He glanced around the hallway. "You, can you help me for a minute?" he pointed to a woman in light blue scrubs as she was walking down the hall.

"But I'm not—"

"It'll just take a second, nurse."

The Winter Soldier noted the subtle raise of her eyebrows, head twisting slightly in small surprise.

"Alright," she said, stepping up next to the bed. "What do you need me to do?"

"He's a SHIELD agent, dislocated shoulder." The Doctor motioned for her to stand at the head of the gurney. "Lie on your back, please." He shook out a spare sheet and wrapped it under the soldier's armpit, handing the ends to the woman above his head. "This might hurt a bit. Still don't want the anesthetic?" The Winter Soldier shook his head.

A part of him waited for someone to stick a mouth guard between his teeth, but it never came. The Doctor gripped his forearm and gently angled it down and away from the soldier's body. "On three." The Doctor shifted his gaze down to him. "Try to relax the muscles in your shoulder."

He let out a breath as the Doctor counted down. A grunt left his lips as the doctor pulled down on his arm while the nurse pulled in the opposite direction with the sheet. He felt a painful pop in his shoulder and instantly it felt better. Not painless, but he knew it wasn't dislocated anymore.

"That should do it. Let me go get you a sling and a prescription and you'll be good to go," the Doctor told him before walking away.

The Winter Soldier sat up and glanced up at the nurse quickly, then did a double take. "Connie." The name slipped his lips before he could catch himself, and he didn't know where the name came from. At this point, he had no memory of this woman in blue scrubs with dark wavy hair and eyes to match.

"I'm sorry?" she said. "My name is Clara."

"You're British," he noted.

"Thought I was someone else?" she smirked. When he didn't answer her voice dropped to a whisper. "And between you and me, I know you're not from SHIELD. I'm the head of the medical department, and I've never seen you before. I'd remember and arm like that."

He hopped off the gurney and began walking back down the hall the way he'd come. He didn't need someone like her, someone _actually _from SHIELD prodding into who he was.

"Hey, wait," she called after him, running to catch up. "You should wait for the sling and the medication—you could injure your arm further."

"I'm fine."

"What's your name?" He ignored her and kept walking. Why had she taken an interest in him anyways? She caught up to him and tugged his metal arm. On an instinct instilled in him by Hydra, he whipped around and pushed her into the wall, pinning her there by her shoulders. "I'm sorry, I'm just really interested in your arm. It's kinda cool to be honest."

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"My name is Clara." She tried to push him away but he stood his ground. "Look, if you're really with SHIELD, their barracks got destroyed when the helicarriers came down—I know because I was almost buried underneath them." He loosened his grip on her shoulders when she rolled up one sleeve to show her whole forearm covered in gauze. "23 stitches."

He stared at her, not sure what to do. This woman claimed to only be interested in his arm. And being in the medical field, he could see why. But being that she was also a part of SHIELD, he knew she would find out who he was and what he'd done if she didn't already know.

"What's your name?"

"I don't know," he admitted finally.

Again, the world dissolved in shades of browns and grays and when he blinked, he was no longer standing in the hallway at a hospital, he was in a bar. Swing music played loudly from a stage to his left, and a pretty dark haired girl sat on a stool to his right sipping from a glass of what looked like simply water.

"So what's your name?" she was asking with a coy smile.

"Bucky Barnes," he told her.

"Well, Bucky Barnes," she said, pushing her drink away from her and hopping off the stool. "Take me dancing and you can call me Connie."

"Hey, are you alright?" The voice cut the memory short and in the next second he was looking into Clara's worried face. "Okay, let's get you out of here." She helped him off the wall her was currently slumped against and wrapped his metal arm over her shoulder, her own arm around his waist. He didn't fight her. Because she looked exactly like Connie.


	2. Chapter 2

_I hope everyone is enjoying this story :D Got lots of favorites and followers last night…Can't promise this will be updated regularly, but I'll definitely try to get a couple chapters out on the weekends…_

**Chapter 2**

The Winter Soldier managed to get into the cab Clara hailed with a little unnecessary help on her part. She leaned forward and gave the driver instructions on their destination, and the address nagged at his mind for a second, a bit familiar. He wondered shortly if another memory would surface.

"So, you don't know your name," she started conversationally. "What do I call you?"

He didn't answer. How could he? What could he tell her to call him? Bucky, like Steve did? Winter Soldier, like Hydra did? No. Right now, he didn't know who he was. He had no name.

"Okay," she finally drawled after a few minutes of silence, looking out the windows. "So you don't know your name—I'm pretty sure you don't work for SHIELD." He kept quiet still. "Where are you from?"

"I don't know."

The taxi stopped and Clara glanced out the window to ensure they were at her apartment complex before she leaned forward to pay the driver as he got out.

"Good luck with him," he heard the driver mutter to her as she got out.

The Winter Soldier stared up at the building. No. He didn't need a memory flashback. He remembered this place. He glanced behind him at the ledge of the building across the street where he'd stood, one boot up on the edge of the building, unregistered gun in his hands, taking aim on a mission. He stared back at the broken window on one of the higher floors.

"There was a shooting a couple days ago." Clara joined him in looking at the window. "Luckily I was at SHIELD when it happened. They shot the director of SHIELD, actually."

"I know."

She shook her head. "It was all over the news." She gently tugged on his hand. "Let's get you inside and get you a shirt or something."

The Winter Soldier glanced down at his bare chest and followed her to a room on the bottom floor. As soon as the front door was shut, a heard nails scratching on the wood floor as something tore down the hall towards them. Instinctually, he pressed his back against the door and flipped the deadbolt quietly.

"Sorry, I should have warned you," Clara said, scratching the small brown and white spaniel behind the ears. It was a small dog, perky and excited to see people. "I'm watching her while a friend is on assignment overseas. She's really friendly." She picked the dog up and headed down into the apartment. "I'm just gonna lock her up in my bedroom for now."

He stood awkwardly in the living room looking around. Things had changed. A large, flat TV sat against the far wall, a light colored couch against the wall across the room. A bookshelf stood next to the window filled with books and small photo frames.

And out the window he could clearly see the building he'd stood on top of days earlier. That was the first time he'd seen Steve—though he hadn't known then that he knew the man.

He whipped around when he heard her come back into the room. "Here," she said, tossing him the shirt she had in her hands. "That should fit you. Sit." She gestured to the couch. But he didn't move.

"Okay, so, didn't want to start this in the car because I work for SHIELD—you never know who's listening," she started, moving to the small kitchenette and pulling two glasses down from a cabinet. "But I'm a doctor."

"I got that much," he muttered. She filled the glasses with water and walked back into the living room slowly, placing both glasses in the table before sitting in the armchair next to the couch.

"Yeah, but it's more than that," she told him. "I've dealt with enough mentally damaged operatives to know one when I see one."

"I don't work for SHIELD," he finally admitted to her, still standing.

She offered up a small smile and tucked some of her dark hair behind her ear. "I know."

"Then how do you know I'm not a threat?" he challenged.

"You're not armed." He eyes traveled down across his still bare chest and down to his empty holsters.

He felt his jaw twitch. Something in him did not like how comfortable she was around him. He didn't like that she wasn't intimidated, that she wasn't immediately submissive to him. She wasn't as in control as she thought. Reaching around to the back of his pants, he pulled out a knife and flashed it to her.

The instant look of slight fear on her face was slightly gratifying for him. No, he decided. This is wrong—she wasn't his mission. But then again, the other people in the hospital weren't his mission but he'd still ended up hurting them.

No, he shouted in his head, no more of this. He dropped the knife onto the table.

"Alright, point made," she murmured, taking a sip of water, her demeanor flipping to professional right before his eyes. He'd seen it in his handlers—the scientists in charge of him when he was at base. They flipped between scared and professional enough in front of him. "You can sit." She gestured again to the couch.

After a pause, he pulled the shirt over his head and sat on the edge of the couch. She wasn't making demands like Hydra did, he noted. She was offering. Letting him decide. This little bit of mental freedom felt…good. To be able to think and do things for himself. To not have to listen to orders.

"So, seeing as I don't have a workplace anymore what with the destruction of SHIELD's HQ, it looks like I'm getting some much deserved vacation time," she laughed. "But I'd really like to help you."

"Why?"

"I'm a doctor—you don't go through years of training and a lifetime of debt unless it's your calling," she explained.

She had a calling. Did he? Did the Winter Soldier have a calling? Is that why he was the way he was?

"I grew up in the UK until I was fifteen," she began suddenly. "I moved to North Carolina with my father when his mother, my grandmother, was having some trouble living on her own in New York. Mum died when I was little. When my grandmother died when I was eighteen. I went on to study medicine at Duke University. Dad moved back to the UK, I moved to DC where Nick Fury recruited me for his medical team. Over time, I worked my way up the ladder."

"Why are you telling me this?" he asked finally, quietly.

"Because I want you to tell me about yourself, what you know. I don't expect you to do anything I wouldn't be willing to do." He just stared at her. Again, she was giving him options. She wasn't demanding anything. She didn't demand a mission report. She was waiting for him. It was all in _his _hands.

"I don't know."

"You say you don't know your name, but when you first saw me, you called me Connie. Do you remember Connie?"

He licked his lips. He did remember Connie. "I met her in a bar."

"What does she look like?"

"She had dark hair, long—past her shoulders," he whispered, remembering. He saw her then, standing in front of him. She was laughing as the music played. They were at some sort of fair. He was in a military uniform like he was last time he remembered her, but she was in a white dress with a matching sweater, colorful embroider across the top. He blinked and it was gone. But the face of that woman was still in the room. "She looked a lot like you."

Clara smiled. "Well that's something. You knew a girl named Connie. You met her at a bar. Do you have any other memories of her?"

"No. That's it."

"Okay. You don't know your name, if you know what year you were born in, we can look up common—"

"1918." It was out of his mouth before he knew where it came from.

"I'm sorry?"

He looked straight at her, a new resolve bubbling inside himself. No more games "There are things about me that if I told you, you would turn me in to SHIELD," he began. "And I cannot afford that. I barely remember who I am, but the things I _do _remember—"

"I can't turn you into SHIELD if SHIELD doesn't exist," she interrupted, irritating him. "But if you want me to help you like I _want _to, you need to tell me everything. Doctor patient confidentiality. I can't legally tell anyone anything unless it could harm you, others, or is a threat to national security."

"I may fall into one or more of those," he grunted, standing. "This was a bad idea." He made his way to the door, but she jumped up and rushed to place herself against the door, careful not to touch him lest he have another violent reaction like he did in the hospital.

"Look, I will respect that you don't want to tell me about yourself right now, but like I said in the hospital, your arm is really interesting—if you'd just let me and a friend take one quick look at it, if you want to leave, I'll let you."

"You want to study me?" he ground out.

"No," she swallowed. "Just your arm. I know a guy with some hi-tech equipment and I know for a fact he would love to see how it works." The Winter Soldier stayed silent. "Please? I'll trade you—you can stay here in my apartment as long as you like—no questions about you or your past—just let me take you to him for a once over of your arm."

"Why?" he managed after a second.

"An arm like that—you can move it on your own—that kind of technology can help thousands of people," she breathed, letting her muscles relax when she saw the storm in his eyes soften.

He took a step back and nodded once, moving so she could walk back into the house.

She grinned. "Thank you," she said earnestly, words he hadn't heard in a long, long time. Something inside him warmed and he felt slightly embarrassed. He heard her messing around in her room before she came back out with a duffle bag in one hand and a phone in the other pressed to her ear. "Stark? Yeah, I'm on my way—I have something you're gonna wanna see."


	3. Chapter 3

_I got carried away last night and wrote one REALLY LONG CHAPTER so I cut it up into two and a half chapters and ACCIDENTALLY maybe left this chapter at a bad place? I dunno. Depends on you, the reader._

_Review and let me know how I'm doing :D_

**Chapter 3**

He stood in the living room watching as she talked quickly on the phone. A Newspaper on her counter caught his eye and he unfolded it to look at the page advertising an exhibit at the Smithsonian dedicated to Captain America.

Clara hung up, dropped the bag by the door.

"I need to drop the dog off at a friend's place across town, but Tony is arranging a flight for us. We'll have about two and a half hours before we have to be at the airport. Do you want to come with me or hang out here?"

He folded the newspaper and turned to look at here. "I'll stay behind."

"Alright, I'll be back in two hours and we'll go. I'm going to stop by what's left of SHIELD and see if they'll let me get some things from my office if it's still there."

He watched as she retrieved the dog from her room, hooked her leash to her collar, and led her out of the apartment. He waited a few minutes, reading over the details of the museum as he pulled on the jacket. This exhibit would tell him more about the man that was his mission—more true facts than he'd been fed at Hydra, which had been scarce anyways.

Worried he'd be recognized, he pulled on a jean jacket that he found on a hook by the door, deciding to take a worn hat from the hook as well. He tucked his hair behind his ears and pulled on the hat, took the paper, and headed out. As long as he was back before she was—not that he needed permission to leave. The museum was only a short, fifteen minute walk a couple blocks away. Her apartment had been relatively close to SHIELD headquarters, which had been placed in a prominent part of the city.

He walked up the steps, his hands in his pockets. The sensory array in his arm came in handy when he snuck in past the guards—he had no money on him, might as well use his stealth training.

He was determined to find out what kind of man this _Steve _was. More importantly—who he was to _him_.

The various plaques detailed Steve's life from before the super soldier serum to shortly after. Then he walked up to a bit that talked about the Howling Commandos. He recognized his own face next to Steve's in the lineup.

They were in World War II together? On the same side? He fought in the war for the American's with Captain America himself. So why was Captain America his target now? Why were they suddenly enemies—at least to him? Steve had made it clear he still thought of him as a friend.

The Winter Soldier turned to continue further into the exhibit and then walked up to the next part in awe. A large holographic image stood before him. This piece was all about him. James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes, it read. The story informed him that he was Steve's childhood friend. Was drafted, sent to England, and then was captured. If Steve hadn't come after him, Bucky would have been killed.

But Steve had gone in and saved them all. There was a fuzzy video of him in a dark jacket standing next to a suited-up Steve, leaning over maps, making jokes. It was like he was looking at two different people. The person he was, and the person he is now. No, that wasn't true, he decided. He wasn't the Winter Soldier anymore, either. If he was, there would have been a trail of destruction behind him.

The text also told him he died falling off a train during a mission. He remembered flashes of pain, his left arm bleeding, his body broken. But other than that, no new memories resurfaced like he had hoped.

What was left of Bucky, this "Winter Soldier," looked up sadly at the monument made for a great man. Could he be that again? Could he be a soldier for the "right side" again? Would he ever be the man who deserved this kind of remembrance? Or would he always have the blood on his hands that he did now?

He averted his eyes and backed away, leaving the museum and heading back for the apartment to wait for Clara.

XXX

Hours later, the Winter Soldier stepped out of the car feeling more exhausted than he could remember ever being despite having spent the last hour or so just traveling from DC to New York City.

"What happened here?" he muttered, following her into the building that had seen better days. The sounds of the city, the cars and people, put his nerves at ease a bit. It felt like…like home.

Clara held the door open for him and let out a laugh, stopping when she saw his stern face. He reached around her and held the door open for _her_, waiting for her to go in first. "You're kidding, right?" But he said nothing. She led the way to the receptionist desk at the back of the lobby, murmuring to him, "It was all over the news. Alien invasion?"

His eyebrows twitched a bit, but he otherwise didn't respond.

"Hi, we're here to see Mr. Stark—I called him earlier, he should be expecting us," she told the receptionist. Even though it was already nearing 7pm, the building was still bustling with people—employees in suits and construction men.

"What's your name?" The receptionist glanced over uneasily at the man standing behind Clara, making his muscles tighten and tense in ways he wish they wouldn't. This woman did nothing wrong. She was a receptionist. She wasn't a threat—she wasn't even armed. She. Was not. A target.

"Dr. Clara Maitland." She glanced over her shoulder then added, "And friend."

The receptionist nodded then picked up the phone. "Mr. Stark, Dr. Maitland and friend are in the lobby." She placed the receiver back on its cradle and offered a small smile. "Someone will be down in a minute."

"Thank you." Clara walked away from the desk to plush benches lined against a fountain in the center of the room. "So you don't remember seeing anything on the news about aliens invading New York?"

"Does that kind of thing happen often?" he asked quietly, hesitantly taking a seat next to her.

She let out a small chuckle. "Thank, God, no," she told him. "But thankfully the Avengers were there. The guy you'll meet in a minute, he saved the entire city from a bomb."

"The Avengers?"

Clara blinked for a second. It was one thing to not know about the aliens—which was really strange considering it had been an international worry since it happened—but to not know about the people who helped stop it? She was leaning more towards amnesia with this man. "Okay." She let out a breath, switching back to professional mode. "The Avengers was a program created by SHIELD to deal with problems that the rest of the government cannot." She began to tick off names on her fingers. "The Avengers are Iron Man, Black Widow, Hawkeye, the Hulk, Thor, and Captain America."

"Captain America…" He let out a shuddering breath as the scenery around him changed and he was suddenly standing in a crowd of people—of soldiers. "So, 'Captain America,' huh, punk?"

The tall man in front of him took off his helmet and grinned, his blond hair muddy with dirt and grime. "Don't laugh, jerk, I didn't pick it out." He gestured to a poster hanging near the tents proclaiming a tour of the American hero.

"Dr. Maitland." The voice cut through his being and he blinked, looking up at a redheaded woman in jeans and a button up walking across the lobby towards them. He jumped to his feet. "How have you been doing? We heard what happened in DC earlier today, are you alright? You weren't in the building—"

Clara smiled and stood while the woman shot off question after question. "I'm fine, Ms. Potts. A little knocked around, but otherwise I'm fine."

"Well, that's good to hear." She turned to the Winter Soldier and held out her hand, which he shook automatically. "I'm Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries." Her eyes, like everyone else's, flickered down to his arm exposed from the t-shirt he'd borrowed from Clara. "Interesting tech."

He gave her a nod, but otherwise stayed silent. He didn't have a name to offer up still. He didn't know who Bucky was. He didn't know _why _he was the Winter Soldier.

Knowingly, Clara jumped in. "So how is Stark doing? When I called him earlier he sounded uptight."

Pepper's face fell slightly, but she motioned for them to follow her to the elevator. "Yes, well, he's been on the internet all day." She pressed the button for the top floor and the door shut.

"So he's been reading through…all of it?" Clara asked quietly.

"As far as I know, yeah," Pepper sighed. "He knew a lot of the information already when he hacked SHIELD months ago, but a lot of the stuff about Hydra…"

"He's got information on Hydra?" the Winter Soldier's voice pierced the quiet air of the elevator

"Yeah, SHIELD was infected with Hydra members. God knows how long," Clara explained, her voice still quiet.

The elevator doors opened with a ding and he let the ladies step out first.

"Well this is new, you're usually up running around, not sitting behind a desk," Clara called across the room to a dark haired man behind a large desk, glasses on, pen between his teeth.

The man looked up and the pen bounced off the desk and dropped to the floor. He jumped to his feet, chair flying back, and immediately jumped across the desk, pulling Pepper behind him. "Pepper—get back," he was yelling.

"Tony—" she began to groan, rolling her eyes.

"Pepper!" he yelled, voice shaking. "You." The growl was directed not at Clara, but at the man she had brought with her. Something flew in from the ceiling and suddenly his arms were covered in red and gold steel. He flew foreword and grasped the man by the shoulders, forcing him back away from the ladies.

The Winter Soldier's hands flew up to push back, the metal plates in his left arm rippling.

"Tony, stop—" But Pepper's words were drowned out by Tony's sudden yelling.

"Was it _you?_" he demanded. "Did you cause that accident?"

"Tony, what are you talking about?" Clara placed herself between the Winter Soldier, who she knew was about to go on the offensive—she could tell from the tilt of his head, the way his eyes were pinned to Tony.

"Did Hydra hire you to kill my parents in 1991?" Tony demanded, voice shaking in anger.


	4. Chapter 4

_So I guess people are enjoying this? A couple people mentioned how it's hard to imagine he would go out in public with no jacket or gloves. I mean, to me, that's more conspicuous than not. In this day and age, what with the wars overseas, technology is advancing, and we're not terribly far away from those kinds of limb replacement. He could easily tell someone it's a prototype. Or just shove his hand in his pocket. Not that I think anyone would go out of their way to ask. And the t-shirt I think would cover up the star so the recognizable part isn't showing (not that I think it was recognized by anyone…)_

_I dunno—this is just my interpretation of the _general direction_ I think the MCU is taking, not necessarily how it'll get there, but I really have strong feelings that this is where it's headed._

_Review and let me know your thoughts—good, bad, whatever :D_

**Chapter 4**

"Was it _you?_" Tony demanded. "Did you cause that accident?"

"Tony, what are you talking about?" Clara placed herself between the Winter Soldier, who she knew was about to go on the offensive—she could tell from the tilt of his head, the way his eyes were pinned to Tony.

"Did Hydra hire you to kill my parents in 1991?" Tony demanded, voice shaking in anger. He tried to push Clara out of the way, but she managed to stand her ground.

"Tony, back off—"

"I don't know."

Everything in the room froze.

"You don't _know?_" Tony snapped. Pepper joined Clara in pulling him back away from the Winter Soldier.

"He has amnesia, Tony—he doesn't even know who he _is_," Clara grunted, managing to push him back into the desk.

"Well let me tell you who he is based on the files I've been reading all day," Tony snapped, walking back around to his computer. He put his fingers to the screen, tapped a few buttons, and then dragged them across the surface. Suddenly the room was full of words and videos.

The Winter Soldier had seen some outrageous tech working for Hydra, but he had seen nothing like this before.

"You were born in—" Tony began angrily.

"1918," Clara gasped.

"My real name is James Barnes," he told her quietly. "Steve called me Bucky when I met him the other day."

"And today?" Tony guessed, pulling up a video of the helicarriers crashing.

The Winter Soldier didn't respond to him, but he felt Clara step closer to him, regardless of the things he knew she could see all around her. The things he had done over the past few days. He'd killed Fury. He'd tried to kill others. He was the reason the hospital she found him in was so full. The reason _she _was in that hospital.

"Steve is in the hospital right now," Tony told him. Just another among the many he had put in a similar situation. Why was Steve special? Something in his mind told him he _should _be.

"I knew him," the Winter Soldier said quietly, walking over to a wall with a few sepia photos. There weren't many—only two or three, but he knew they were him. One he was standing with Captain America.

"Why can't I remember any of this?" he growled, whipping around to his accuser. "If you think you know me so well, why can't I remember being Bucky? Why can't I remember being anything other than the Winter Soldier?"

"Tony, stop this," Pepper said finally.

"This is helping no one," Clara declared. She rounded on Tony. "You have proof Hydra may have had a hand in your parents' deaths, but you have no proof it was him. He has some form of amnesia. Repressed memories have been making themselves known since I met him in the hospital this morning."

"Wow," a new voice murmured. "And I thought _I _had anger issues."

"Not the time, Bruce," Tony muttered, losing steam.

The Winter Soldier's eyes lingered on the news reels of him in the black mask and goggles, destroying the highway in his pursuit of Steve and his friends. He remembered those. He remembered those as he dragged Steve's body out of the Potomac.

Could he be more than the Winter Soldier? What had driven him to be that? What had made him leave behind that life—leave behind Bucky and become this emotionless assassin? The same questions over and over. He felt like he was running in circles now.

"I was in the army," he murmured, looking back behind him at a sepia photo of him in uniform. He remembered that.

"Drafted," he sighed to himself, no longer in Stark's tower, but in a 30s style kitchen. He gripped the counter and stared down at the letter lying in front of him. He'd been drafted into the war. His life was about to change.

He folded the letter and stuffed it in his jacket pocket, leaving the kitchen, crossing the living room. Ignoring his mother who was calling him name, he slammed the front door shut after him. He wasn't thinking about where he was going, but he ended up in front of the most familiar door in the world.

Kicking aside the brick he picked up the spare key and let himself in.

"Hey, Buck," a voice called to him when he entered the kitchen, flopping down into a kitchen chair. "Hey, what's wrong? Is your mom okay? Rebecca?"

God, how was he supposed to tell Steve—Steve who wanted nothing more than to join the army—that he'd been drafted, forced to do something he would rather do anything but.

The memory faded as insistent words, "Hey, wake up," broke through his confused stupor.

"Connie," he breathed, blinking, wondering how he gotten on the floor.

"Would it be alright if I checked your head?" the man Tony had called Bruce was asking him, hovering over him.

Again, someone was giving him a choice. He nodded his consent after making sure he had no needles or anything of the sort on him. He was wearing simply khaki's and a button down, the sleeves rolled up.

Bruce's fingers flitted lightly around the back of his skull at the back of his neck and behind his ears. The look on his face was not one he ever liked seeing on the faces of the scientists at Hydra.

The Winter Soldier pushed them all away, standing up. "What?"

"Look, I can't say I know what you've been through," Bruce started, "but I know what it's like being a lab rat. But I really want to do a scan of your head—I think Hydra may have implanted something in your head."

"What?" Clara led the soldier to a chair Pepper dragged over from the desk. Without asking, she placed her fingers behind his ears, his hands shooting up and gripping her wrists tightly. When he realized she hadn't been doing anything with malicious intent—he had vastly over reacted—he let his hands slide off her wrists and she continued to prod lightly.

"I can feel something behind his left ear—could be nothing, but the amnesia you explained to me—it's not normal."

"How long was I out?" he muttered to Clara, noticing the videos and photos were gone, and the windows were completely dark now, the sun having gone down.

"About half an hour," Tony informed him from behind the computer again.

"I know I told you back at my apartment that we wouldn't go into your past anymore," Clara began, "but I really think we can help you." His eyes locked with hers.

What would they do if he said no? She had already gotten these three other people involved with him—they could turn him into SHIELD or worse—Hydra.

"You've walked into the HQ of Misfits—you're safe here," Bruce tried.

"Once he's back on his feet we can get Cap here," Tony sighed, "If anyone, he'll know the most—"

"No," the Winter Soldier snapped, standing. His head spun and exhaustion was taking over him again. When was the last time he slept?

"Why not?"

"I'm not…the things I've done," he tried to explain in a hurry. "I can't face—I don't—"

"Let's table that idea for now," Clara suggested. "For now, can we let Dr. Banner scan you for Hydra's tech?"

He nodded once, but firmly. "Just—from what I _can _remember, the doctors and scientists that have handled me in the past—"

Bruce held up a hand and offered a small smile. "We'll take it slow."

The Winter Solder looked to Clara, who only raised her eyebrows, awaiting his response. How had he, in one day, gone from Hydra, his owners, his commanders, to having…free will? Because he'd chanced upon this female doctor in a hospital in DC?

"Alright."

Bruce turned to Tony, "see if you can have an x-ray machine brought up to the lab?"

"Sure. I'll leave you to that, then," Tony murmured from his desk. "We can talk about the arm when the more pressing matters are dealt with."

Clara nodded and followed the other two back into the elevator.

Once the doors were shut and they could hear the elevator leave the floor, Pepper looked at Tony and crossed her arms.

"What?"

"I thought you destroyed the suits."

He gave her a grin and straightened up, shifting his focus from the computer to her. "Come on, you don't think I'd leave us completely defenseless, did you?"

She sighed and walked around the table. "Not at all. I figured you'd give Dummy a gun as defense."

"I gave Dummy a fire extinguisher once and that was the worst decision of my life. I'm not giving him lethal projectiles," Tony argued lightheartedly.

"Tony," she started seriously, cupping his face in her hands to make sure she had his full attention. "I'm sorry about your parents. Really, I am—but whether or not that man had anything to do with it changes nothing."

"Pep, my parents were _murdered_," Tony whispered to her. "Dad and I might not have gotten along, but they were still my parents. If he had anything to do with it—"

"Then what? You'll have him thrown in jail? Make him suffer?" Pepper guessed. She let him go and stepped away, finding her shoes by the door. "It looks to me like he's already suffering."

Tony let out a puff of air. "I have to let Cap know he's here, though."

"I know," Pepper murmured, moving back to him to give him a lingering kiss. "I'm going to make dinner and go to bed. I'll see you later, I assume?"

Tony gave her another quick kiss before she left. Once he was alone, he immediately dialed the number for Steve's room at the hospital in DC.

"Hello?"

"This isn't Steve, who is this?" Tony demanded.

"This is Sam," the man responded slowly. "I'm a friend—"

"Ah, codename Falcon. Right. Steve hasn't woken up yet?"

"Not yet—who is this?"

"Tony Stark," he explained quickly. "Tell Steve to give me a call when he wakes up—I've got a friend of his here and Steve and I need to have a little conversation."

"Sure thing."


	5. Chapter 5

_Hello, friends! Wanted to mention that as people favorite and follow this story, I get amused by people's usernames. I'm especially fond of the Doctor Who and Nightwing related ones. Especially that Nightwing one :P EXCEPT WHAT DC IS DOING TO NIGHTWING RIGHT NOW IS UNACCEPTABLE._

_Review and tell me how I'm doing :D_

**Chapter 5**

"Just lay back, get comfortable," Bruce muttered, moving different things around on tables.

They were in a large, well-lit room full of rows and rows of long tables. He had rolled in a gurney from another room. The Winter soldier stared at it for a second, a feeling kin to loathing washing over him. His nerves were shot and he felt like he was going to burst. But he pushed it all down and got onto the gurney anyways.

"So what are you going to do," Clara asked, watching as the Winter Soldier lay back on the table, eyes never leaving the other doctor.

Bruce walked across the room and opened a cabinet along the wall. "Well, we can't do an MRI—if there's any metal in his head, it'll rip it out—and then there's the more obvious piece of metal."

"So, what then?" Clara asked. "If we can't scan his brain function—You think they implanted something in his head? Like, computer pieces?" Bruce just shrugged. "Think it'll show up on an x-ray?"

"I have some theories as to what's already in there, but I'd like to know what we're dealing with exactly."

"Which is what?" the man in the chair piped in. He never heard the answer, though, because as Bruce approached him to answer, the man shifted into a short, bald, angry scientist.

"Open," a Russian commanded. The Winter Soldier opened his mouth immediately and a guard was shoved in roughly. His eyes frantically darted around the room as they put the apparatus around his head.

The pain from previous experiences rose to his conscious mind and he remembered this part, every time. The feeling of his mind, his brain, everything he was thinking just being ripped apart at its most basic form.

"Begin," the voice said.

But the shock never came. Instead, he blinked and was staring into wide dark eyes, his own frantically shooting around the room, taking in as much of his surroundings as he could. He was leaning up on the gurney, his metal arm propping himself up, his other gripping Clara's shoulder.

"Hey," she was saying, her hand cupping his face. "You're okay here. Promise."

"I remembered," he managed, gasping for air.

Clara's lips turned up, but she still had a professional air about her. "Remembered what?"

He let her go and simultaneously pulled out of her grasp, swinging his legs so that he was sitting on the edge of the gurney. "I—they—"

Banner had stopped what he was doing and came around to stand next to Clara in front of him, arms crossed. "What kind of amnesia does he have, Dr. Maitland?"

"I can't—they shocked me," the soldier breathed, trying to calm his erratic heart. This wasn't Hydra, he chanted in his head. This was not Hydra. Clara was kind and he was getting help.

The doctors exchanged a glance. "Shocked you _how_?" Clara asked after a second, concern coloring her features.

"After missions," he explained, "I would be in this chair. They'd stick a mouth guard in my face and electrocute my skull with some kind of—"

"Oh, my God," Clara breathed, shaking her head.

Bruce nodded and returned to his desk with a renewed energy. "Well, that certainly proves my theories."

"What?"

"Shock treatment," Clara said, watching Bruce gather equipment and papers. "It's been used to repress bad memories." She looked back to the Winter Soldier. "How often did you have these procedures? Do you remember that? It's fine if you can't."

He shook his head slowly. "As far as I can remember, after every mission."

"Do you remember if Hydra did it to you recently?" Bruce asked, dragging over a metal cart, various tools and papers laid out over the surface.

"A few days ago, I fought…Steve. He called me Bucky—said he knew me," he told them. "And for a little while I remembered him—remembered falling from the train, remembered having what was left of my arm being sawed off."

"Alright," Bruce sighed. He pulled over a large white machine. "Ever had an X-Ray?"

"_We'll need an x-ray, just to make sure it's just a simple dislocation and that nothing is fractured."_

The bright white walls of the lab, Clara, and Bruce. They all melted away. He was standing in front of Smaller Steve now, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched a doctor flit around his friend's broken arm.

"Ever had an x-ray before?" the doctor asked.

"Not that I remember," Steve answered, fidgeting.

The Doctor smiled kindly and looked at Bucky, who just shook his head. "Ok, so what's going to happen is…"

"Hey? You alright?"

Clara's voice brought him out of his vision. "I watched Steve get an x-ray once. The doctor explained to us how it worked."

"So you'll be no stranger to the process," Bruce confirmed. "If you could lie back, I'll set it up and in bit we'll be able to see what's going on."

Clara helped him recline back, her hand lingering on his metal shoulder so that she was sure he would stay calm this time. "So you saw Steve get an x-ray? Hard to imagine the super soldier needing something like that."

"From what I can remember, he wasn't always a super soldier," the Winter Soldier grunted, shifting. "He had a dislocated shoulder, I think."

"From what he told me once," Bruce muttered, reaching up to the top of the machine. "He used to get into fights a lot."

"Now _that's _hard to imagine," Clara laughed.

"Alright, if you could turn your head to your left," Bruce requested. Not demanded. "We'll take a few images, just so that we don't have to do this later." Bruce walked away and Clara hopped up on a nearby stool within in eyesight.

"So," she started conversationally, elbow on her crossed legs and her chin in her hand. "From what I saw earlier, you've had quite the day."

"You're not afraid of me. Of what I've done," he noted quietly.

"Are _you _afraid of what you've done?" she countered with practiced ease. He was silent, just simply watching her. "It's okay to be afraid."

"Alright, Dr. Maitland," Bruce said, returning to the room. "If you'll follow me, we'll get out of the way to take some x-rays."

Clara offered up a friendly smile. "Be right back."

In total they had him take four or five x-rays. He didn't mind, actually. It was a stark contrast to the way the scientists had treated him. There, he was a subject, an _asset_. Here—he was a patient with a problem. He was someone to be treated, not tested on. The Winter Soldier felt like a real person. For as long as his memory served, he could only remember robotically doing everything Hydra asked of him.

Somewhere along the way, he'd let his guard down enough in his feel-good moment and fell asleep. When was the last time he'd slept? A vision of a tank flitted across his vision. It was cold. So cold. He remembered the first time they put him in there—it was the only time he'd fallen asleep in one. He had tried to pound on the glass, to escape, but he was trapped. And cold. So cold.

But he wasn't in the chamber that he always remembered waking up in when they needed him for a mission. He was out in the snow. Cold. He reached down with his flesh hand towards a twinge in his leg and came back with a knife covered in his own blood. And suddenly it was like his body knew and just gave up.

The Winter Soldier fell to his knees and noticed the splashing of bright red across the snow. Glancing down at himself, he brought both hands shakily to the slash across his stomach, his metal hand only adding to the mind numbingly cold sensation he felt emanating from the wound.

"We have him," someone behind him said in Russian.

"Location confirmed," a voice cracked—over a radio of some sort, his mind made out hazily.

He pulled his hands away from himself, amazed by the amount of blood. He bled? Like his assignments? Like his missions? His mind conjured a fuzzy memory of a man in a suit lashing out with a decorative sword he'd pulled from the way before the Winter Soldier managed to finally gun him down.

Hands grabbed him from all sides. He could hear a chopper in the distance. No, he wanted to tell them. He wanted them to stop grabbing at him. To leave him alone. He just wanted to sleep. He was so tired. So cold.

He woke up yelling in Russian, vaguely hearing a rough "let me go" echo off the walls. A brunette stood up from her stool across the room and approached him.

"Who are you?" he snapped in Russian. "Stop!"

The woman froze mid stride, eyebrows furrowing. She held up her hands innocently. "Hey, now, I'm not gonna hurt you."

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"I don't speak Russian, I'm sorry," she told him slowly.

"Who are you?" he repeated, in English this time. Before she could answer, things were slowly coming back to him. "Connie?"

She smiled and shook her head. "You've mistaken me for Connie three times now," she said, lowering her hands. But the Winter Soldier didn't relax. "My name is Clara."

"Where am I?" he shot off.

"You're in Stark Tower," she responded calmly. "You came here with me." Did he? His head hurt. He couldn't remember clearly. "You've been having memory problems and I've been helping you. Do you remember coming here?"

He shook his head for a second. "No."

"Okay." She crossed her arms slowly. "Do you remember Connie?"

"Yes." He met her at a bar.

"Do you remember Steve? Or any of the events he was involved with you over the last few days?"

Steve. Steve. Yes, he remembered parts of Steve. Small Steve and Captain America Steve. "Yes."

"Alright, good," she smiled. "Do you remember getting x-rays?"

"What?" he snapped. "No." What had they done to him while he was asleep? "Are you with Hydra?"

"No, we're not." Both sets of eyes snapped to the curly brown haired man walking into the room with large black x-rays in his hands.

"He's having a moment," Clara whispered to Bruce.

He nodded in understanding. "Well, I have the answers as to why you're having these kinds of cognitive problems." He pulled out a light box and spread the images out on top.

The Winter Soldier hopped off the gurney and strode over to look at the x-rays they had taken. "What the hell are those?" he muttered.

"These three are electrodes used in the shock treatments," Bruce explained, fingers sliding along different x-rays to point out the bright white shapes that should not have been there.

"What about this one?" Clara asked grimly, pointing to a separate, smaller chip.

"That's the one that worries me," he sighed.

"You think Hydra is tracking me?" he demanded.

"Pretty sure." Bruce stared at the x-rays for a second longer. "JARVIS."

"Yes , Sir?" a disembodied voice filled the room.

"Ask Stark to come down to the lab and to bring an EMP emitter."

"Right away, Sir."


	6. Chapter 6

_I didn't get to update earlier today cuz I had classes from 9-2 then I had to pack to go home for the easter weekend. And as soon as I got home my friends and I went to see Captain America 2 again. GOOD NEWS: I'll be home till Sunday with very little homework and lots of time to update. I've got the next few chapters written, too, cuz I kinda got carried away…._

_Review and let me know your thoughts, questions, concerns, whatever! Predict what you think is gonna happen in this fic ;)_

**Chapter 6**

The minute Tony walked into the room with a small box in his hand, the Winter Soldier remembered him. Clara knew it by the small, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips.

"Kinda hard to forget that one," she muttered. Clara grinned when the corner of his mouth turned up for half a second in a genuine smirk.

"Alright, Bucksicle—"

"What?" His eyebrows pulled together in confusion at the poorly developed nickname.

"Well, Cap is 'Capsicle,' figured—" Tony tried to explain, but stopped when he saw the unappreciative look he was getting from a few of the others in the room. "No nicknames then. Whatever, I brought the EMP."

"Great." Bruce took it from Tony. "What's the range?"

"Not far, pretty close range. It was the prototype for the suit—why?" Tony muttered, glancing up at the Winter Soldier as Bruce inspected the handheld device.

"This should short circuit the chips in your head until we can have them removed," Bruce explained. "Ready?" He waited for a firm confirmation before he pressed the button. The lights above them flickered for a second, but more noticeably, the soldier's metal arm fell limply to his side.

The weight of it just hanging off his shoulder unnerved him. It was heavier than his other arm by a few pounds. His eyes flicked up to Clara, who was watching him carefully, and then to Bruce, who had discarded the EMP on a nearby table.

"Something failed," the Winter Soldier stated, trying to move the arm at his side.

"No, it did what it was supposed to," Tony said, a condescending hint in his voice that pressed a button in the Winter Soldier.

"I know how an EMP works," he explained, letting a bit of anger tinge his voice. "What I mean is that my arm has certain capabilities. The sensory array in it keeps it from setting off metal detectors, but it can also emit an EMP of its own—meaning it shouldn't be affected by one."

"Okay, so you shorted out." He smiled and shook his head, throwing his arms out. "I can fix that. Robotics has kinda been my thing."

"Clara called you Iron Man," he realized.

"I thought you didn't remember coming here," she murmured to him.

"It's coming back to me," he muttered back.

"Well, while Tony is fixing your arm, I'll show you everything Tony has on you, see if we can't jog your memory a bit," she told him, flitting around the room, collecting different things.

"You should have an easier time remembering things now." Bruce took off his glasses and ran a hand over his face. "No more little cognitive hiccups when you sleep."

"It's never happened before. I never slept. I was always cryogenically frozen between missions." The room paused to stare at him for a second in surprise.

"Alright, well, follow me down to my garage in the basement and I'll rewire your arm for you," Tony said awkwardly after a second, offering up a smile before he spun on his heels and led them out of the room.

XXX

"Alright, so I'm not sure how much of this you remember from when we got here—" Clara began once they were down in the lower levels of Avenger's Tower. He was seated in a modified medical chair, not unlike the one he'd had his shock treatments in. But the lack of electrical apparatus surrounding him put him at ease enough to sit still.

Clara began pulling up the files Tony had shown them about the Winter Soldier. His flesh hand shot out and pulled the top of the laptop down a bit before he saw too many of the articles on his murderous missions.

"I remember that part," he grumbled. "I don't need to see it again."

She gave him a supportive smile and gently brushed his hand away before opening the laptop back up and closing the files. "Okay, how about we explore Bucky, then?" She typed his full name into a search engine and he contained his surprise at how many related pages came up.

"Oh yeah, there's that exhibit at the Smithsonian in DC," she told him, clicking the link at the top of the page that took them to information about the exhibit. She glanced at him. "We can go some time, if you want."

"I've been," he muttered, distracted by the pictures of the exhibit on the page. "While you were out before we flew here. Didn't jog my memory much."

"Stories don't bring back memories as strongly as familiar places, people, scents, sounds—those sorts of things." She hesitated, jaw working to find the words to voice her next thought. "Are you sure you don't want to speak to Steve?"

"Yes," he said tightly. But his eyebrows had pulled together, the saddest look on his face. "Not right now. I can't. Not after everything I've done."

"None of that will matter to Steve," Tony chuckled fondly, straddling a stool on the other side of him and pulling on work gloves. "He's the kind of guy that sees the best in everyone."

"Don't I know it," he whispered to himself, remembering the vague memories he had of Steve.

"Alright, Big Guy." Tony motioned for him to put his arm on the armrest, which he had to manually lift it off his lap and place it there with his other hand. Tony tested its weight, picking up and dropping his wrist himself. "Damn—that's not light. Alright. Let's see what we're working with."

"Hold on," Bucky muttered, reaching around himself to the bottom of his shoulder when the metal met the flesh of his back. "There's a loose panel—I can't—"

"Got it," Tony grunted, pulling at the panel that the soldier's fingertips could barely reach. He pursed his lips when all of the panels on his arm shifted up and flipped open. Tony's eyes lit up at the sight and his lips pursed. "JARVIS, tell Pepper I won't be home tonight."

"Very well, Sir," the AI chirped.

"I've seen this technology before," Tony laughed. "It's Russian in origin. I used the same base tech in my suits—but this is like—the iPhone 5 to my iPhone 2." Tony was practically panting, afraid to even touch it.

"Are you gonna fix it or make out with it?" Clara asked, eyebrows raised.

Tony blinked at her. "Not sure yet, give me a minute."

"Okay, then," Clara said slowly, turning back to her laptop. "Before that gets pornographic, let's go back to googling you."

"Googling? I don't understand," he muttered.

"You understand how an EMP generator works, technology that's only been around since, like, the 50s I think—but google baffles you?" Tony chuckled.

"I was taught what I needed to know—weapons and different kinds of tech I was stealing. Stuff I either had to work with or had to be able to recognize," he explained, voice flat, emotionless, and uncaring. "I can't tell you when I learned all of it, but I know it. I knew about laptops and the touch screen you have up in your office—though, the screen-less imaging is new."

"Google is a search engine on the internet," Clara explained patiently. "You type a word or phrase in and it finds pages related to that. 'Googling' is just a slang verb for doing a google search."

"And with that—this shouldn't hurt, but the metal might heat up," Tony said. "Let me know if it bothers you."

The Winter Soldier watched as Tony leaned over and stuck his tools into one of the opening, tweezers pulling at wires, strengthening connections. Sparks flew, flickering against the shiny metal. It felt exactly like it did every time he got upgrades. When the red-haired woman threw the small electric disruptor at his arm—it might not have worked, but it weakened a connection. And then Steve had tried to break the arm with his shield.

A finger twitched as Tony managed a reconnection. "See!" he grinned. "Same base tech."

"Hey, you had a sister?"

The soldier turned back to the brunette woman at his side and looked at her screen. "Those are medical records."

"Hers—her name was listed on your obituary from the 40s. She died about ten years ago." She looked up at him and knew he was remembering something. He was looking at the laptop screen but he wasn't seeing it.

"C'mere," Bucky grunted, hoisting a small girl up onto his hip.

"Bucky I wanna go, too," she said.

"Sorry, Rebecca, you're not old enough," Steve told her, flicking one of her curls.

She stared at Bucky sadly. He pressed his lips together. "How about I take you to Coney Island sometime instead," he suggested softly, knowing the six year old was going to cry soon. She nodded finally, knowing he would not be taking her dancing with him and Steve.

"Promise?" she asked softly.

"Promise." He kissed her forehead and she pulled his face to hers, kissing his cheek before pushing him away and jumping out of his arms.

"Alright, Big Guy," Tony muttered, pushing his chair away a bit. "See if you can move your hand."

The Winter Soldier blinked and balled his hand into a fist, hearing all the parts move as they should. He reached back on his own and snapped the lever back into place. All of the plates shifted down in a ripple.

"How does it feel?" Clara asked, closing the laptop.

He stood and took a few steps away from the chair before swinging his arm in a circle, whipping it into place. "Perfect," he muttered in Russian. What the mechanic that was assigned to him always said after he was fixed up or upgraded.

"Is that good?"

The Winter Soldier turned around and offered a quick, fleeting smile. "Yes. Thank you." Clara could see his flesh hand beginning to tremor and he shook it to keep it from shaking, shifting his weight nervously from one foot to the other. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because you asked me to fix your arm," Tony responded, cleaning up his tools.

"Not just fixing my arm—everything," he breathed. He pointed menacingly at Clara. "You saw all the people in that hospital—there because _I _attacked SHIELD." His gesture moved to Tony, who had halted his movements and was watching him now. "You—I could have killed you parents for all _either_ of us know. And yet you fix up my arm, you and the other doctor are _helping _me—_why_?"

Clara stood up, lips pressed into a line. "Hey, I've worked for SHIELD, I've seen and heard people who have done some pretty messed up things," Clara pressed. "No one is beyond help—_that's _why I became a doctor."

"Why don't you say my name?" he snapped at her.

"Because you haven't told me what you're name is—"

"You saw my file. You know my name."

Clara wet her lips and let out a short breath, reminding herself that this was just another moment he was having. "I know—but _you _haven't told me what you want to be called."

"I don't know because I don't know who I am," he shouted.

"Okay!" Tony yelled above them. "This has really escalated quickly and it's late. Why don't you guys go take a shower and go to bed?" He paused. "Not together, though I do suppose it'd take the edge off a few things."

Clara rolled her eyes and turned back to the Winter Soldier. "Why don't we go get you a shower and some place to sleep?" He didn't respond, his chest heaving. "You can decide what to do in the morning, but I don't think you've gotten any sleep in days. I'm surprised you're still standing." His face softened but he still didn't move. "I promise you, it's medically proven that sleep can help memory function."

She could almost see his resolve breaking in his eyes. Taking that chance, she grabbed his metal arm and pushed him towards the door. "Shower and a couple of rooms?" she asked Tony.

"Back up to the fifty-sixth floor. When you get off the elevator, turn right, first hall, last two doors on your left should have spare beds. You'll pass locker rooms on your right," Tony directed, going back to cleaning up his things.

"Thank you, Tony," Clara said earnestly. "Even though—"

Tony shook his head. "Don't worry about it."


	7. Chapter 7

_I meant to update earlier today, but my mom kinda had an ordeal with a pitbull and her car will be in the shop until Wednesday, so I spent the day running around with her getting ready for Easter._

_So glad so many of you are enjoying this story so far! The reviews make me smile. Like I said, I wanted to explore more of the psychological aspects of Bucky's situation so this is extremely fun for me._

_Review and let me know thoughts, questions, concerns, predictions, etc. I love reading reactions and predictions and will answer any questions :D_

**Chapter 7**

Clara blinked in the darkness, unsure of what woke her up. In the dim light coming from the window she could barely make out the numbers on the clock. Was it 3:30 or 6:15? Early. That's all she knew.

She heard something shift on the other side of the room and shot up to her elbows, squinting at the shadow in the chair. She saw the glint in the darkness and let out a loud breath.

"What are you doing in here?" she asked, falling back onto her pillows.

"If Hydra comes looking for me, I don't want them coming after you for helping me."

She was quiet for a second letting that sink in. She was _almost_ too tired to slip into the professional questioning. "You really think this building isn't safe?"

"Did you think that about SHIELD?" he muttered, half asleep as she was.

"Point for you," she grumbled half-heartedly.

"I distrust Hydra more than you trust this place."

"That makes two of us."

"I _am _thinking more clearly now. Got a few hours of sleep."

"Point for me." Things were silent for a bit and she thought he'd fallen asleep in the chair, head propped up on his flesh hand. His long hair, still wet from the shower she forced him to take, hung limply in his face. "Hey," she murmured. "Talk to Steve."

"No."

"Go back to your room," she drawled sleepily.

"Not gonna let you be my fault."

"Whatever. Don't care." She pulled the blankets up above her head. "I'm going sleeping."

XXX

The second time she woke up, the Winter Soldier was still asleep in the chair in the corner. Out cold. She managed to sneak out of the bed and into the hall, closing the door as far as she dared. "Some assassin. Assassin—maybe. Ninja? No." She wandered down the hall, still in her jeans and t-shirt from the previous day, barefoot.

It was still a weekday, but there was no one on the floor she was on. It was completely silent, seemingly empty. She'd heard both Bruce and Tony do it, but she was hesitant to try. "Uhm, JARVIS?"

"Yes, Dr. Maitland?" The AI's voice echoed gently in the empty hall, and she continued down and away from the sleeping soldier.

"Do you know where Tony Stark is?"

"Mr. Stark is not in the tower. He went home at eight-sixteen this morning."

"Right," she sighed. "Is Dr. Banner still in the building?"

"Dr. Banner is with Steve Rogers down in the Cafeteria."

Clara's blood ran cold and she stared up at the ceiling, running a hand through her hair. "Oh—Uh, JARVIS, where's the cafeteria?"

"Second floor, directly across from the elevators, Dr. Maitland."

"Thank _you_," she breathed, taking off in a sprint for the elevators around the corner. "JARVIS, let me know when…my friend wakes up."

"Yes, Dr. Maitland."

"Come on, come on." She pressed jammed all the down buttons on the three elevators, jumping into the one that opened first. Eighty-six floors, the chances of him deciding to go down to the second were slim. But then again, with how _his _life had turned out, unlikely chances seemed to happen to him a lot.

Once the elevator doors got out of her way she shot across the hallway and pushed open one of the cafeteria's swinging doors. It was lighter than she expected and it flew open, slamming into the wall, and she stumbled to a stop, eyes searching the crowded room for Dr. Banner and Steve.

They were sitting in a corner near the doors. The other employees had left the tables around them empty.

Walking up to them, she was aware she was being stared at, but if she didn't stop this, what could happen would be more than a scene. "You can't be here," she panted, pointing at Steve.

"I'm sorry?" He looked up at her, confused.

"Steve, this is Dr. Maitland," Bruce introduced. "She was the head of the medical department at SHIELD."

"And I was a psychiatrist before that," she added. "And I'm working with—with your friend and you can't see him."

"Tony called me and told me he was here," Steve explained slowly, his demeanor shifting quickly towards defensive, eyebrows pulling together in the wake of seriousness.

"Of course he did," she groaned. "But as his current doctor, I'm telling you, you can't see him until _he _wants to see _you_."

"He doesn't _remember_ me," Steve tried.

Clara pulled out a chair and sat down. "He remembers you enough to know he's not ready to see you yet."

Steve looked hurt. "Why not?"

"As his doctor, I'm telling you that you can't see him until he's ready," she tried to explain quickly. "But as his friend, trust me, I'm going to try everything I can to get him to talk to you."

"Why?"

"Because we've been over Hydra's files—we've been over everything we can find about him."

"No, I mean why are you helping him?" Steve asked, voice strong, face intimidating. "He's killed dozens of people. If you've ready Hydra's files, then you know who he is and what he's done—what he did just days ago."

She flinched under his gaze, but answered anyways. "One man's freedom fighter is another man's terrorist. He was just a freedom fighter for the wrong side."

"Easy to say when you've never fought in a war," Steve said, standing.

"Can you tell me that the Nazis'—mostly innocent people _drafted into a war_—didn't view _you _as a terrorist? A mass murderer of their people?"

"Doctor—"

"Clara."

Steve nodded once. "Clara. I can't give up on him."

"I'm not asking you to," she said with a smile. "Just give me—" she bit her lip, trying to measure out the number of days the procedure would take to remove the implants in his head. "—Give me two weeks."

Steve's eyebrows shot up. "Two weeks?"

"He has some invasive technology in his head that we need to remove," Bruce interjected. "It'll take a few days for him to completely recover from that."

"I think they're what's making it hard for him to remember—"

"Dr. Maitland." JARVIS's voice echoed loudly in the cafeteria, silencing everyone. She jumped at the sound. "Your…_friend_ is awake."

"Thank you, JARVIS," she replied. "Please. Just two weeks."

Steve took a deep breath, considering this. He looked to Banner.

"Steve, I'll be here with them the whole time. If you don't trust her, trust me. I'm sure the other guy can handle any situation that could arise," Banner assured him.

Finally, Steve nodded. "Two weeks. I'll be back in two weeks." He slid a folder towards Clara. "I made a copy. A friend gave it to me when I was released from the hospital. I was going to give it to Banner, but I think it'll serve its purpose better with you. It's Hydra's notes on the Winter Soldier program. Straight from Russia."

"And I've got a translator upstairs," Clara breathed with a grin. "Thank you. I'll have Dr. Banner or Mr. Stark call you if anything changes."

She took off again for the elevators, manila folder clutched to her chest. When the doors opened, she was looking into the face of one confused man. "Get back in the elevator," she commanded, pushing against him with her whole weight. They both slammed against the back of the elevator causing it to shake, and she jammed her finger into a high numbered button. Anything to get them moving up.

Immediately she pulled away from him when she realized her hasty actions could have caused a reaction. But although his pale eyes were wild and slightly unfocused, he seemed otherwise calm.

"What's going on?" he demanded. "Is Hydra here?"

"No, no, no," she breathed, laughing. "Steve was in the cafeteria." The Winter Soldier went rigid. "Don't worry, I asked him to leave for the time being. I told him that, as your doctor, I couldn't recommend him coming to see you yet. Not until you give the okay."

She heard him release a breath. "Thank you."

"It's fine," she waved him away, "he understood." With more time, the rushing adrenaline fading, she pushed the actual floor they needed to take them back to their rooms.

The soldier fall back against the wall of the elevator, pushing his hair behind his ears to keep it out of his face. Clara looked down at the file in her hands, unable to read any of the words on the cover. She held it out to him.

"What's this?" He took the file from her and read the cover. "What is this? Where did you get it?"

"Steve had it. He was going to give it to Dr. Banner. He decided to give it to me instead when I explained I'm working with you."

"How did Steve know I was here?"

"Tony called him." She placed both hands on his arms when he turned to stone, eyebrows pulling down, eyes turning menacing. "Hey," she snapped. "He was just trying to be a friend to Steve. Don't take it out on him. He didn't mean to cause harm."

He watched her for a second, relaxing when the elevator dinged. "Right," he nodded.

"Shall we go dig through your Russian biography then?" she asked him with a grin and a flourish, leading him out of the elevator and back to one of the rooms.


	8. Chapter 8

_Meant to update way earlier. Forgot. Got lots of new followers :D Hello, Friends! I hope you are all enjoying my story thus far. Easter is today (It's midnight here, now….) So if I don't get to update later tonight, sorry. I am staying with my parents as long as I can, then I have to drive back to school and maybe thing about getting homework done…._

_Review and let me know thoughts, questions, concerns, predictions, etc._

**Chapter 8**

"Arnim Zola seems to have been the one who actually carried out the procedure on you," Clara murmured, flipping through the files covered in Russian. They sat on the floor with their backs against the door, pages and pages of information spread out on the floor in front of them.

Clara had a notebook balanced on one knee that she had been writing down the key notes in from the files as Bucky translated them. He read most of them aloud to her, but there were some he had put aside, claiming they were unimportant.

"But who ordered it," he muttered, eyes scanning another page. "This one is notes about my mental stability in the beginning." He put it in the pile of not-important-papers and picked up another.

"Well, we know it was Hydra."

"Yeah, but I want a name," he growled. "I want to know where their base is."

"From the pattern the papers were in the file—newer stuff on top, older stuff on the bottom." Clara pulled the folder off his lap and flipped to the back page, letting out a shuddering gasp as the folder slipped through her fingers.

"What?" The Winter Soldier took everything back and flipped to the last pages until he saw what she had seen.

"Sorry," she muttered, "Just took me by surprise."

He stared down emotionlessly at the picture stapled to the page. It was an old photo, quality-wise. It was of him, of course, but not as he was presently. He looked like he should have been dead. And falling 300 feet—he rightfully _should _have been. But the photo in his hand proved that Hydra went to some lengths to keep their asset from dying.

In the photo, he was lying on a gurney, the sheet covering his lower half bloodied on the left side where half his arm lay mutilated. "I have these...strands of memories. Fragments."

Clara shook her head, "you don't have to—"

"I have memories of going in and out of consciousness from the time Hydra found me, lying in the snow until right before the procedure." She watched as he looked over the page. "They brought me to a small base on the border of Belgium."

"You're sure?" She leaned over and looked at the words that made no sense to her as if they would rearrange themselves into something she could read.

He pointed to a line of text. "That's a Belgian address."

"Can you read it out to me?" she asked quietly, reading her pen over her paper. She wrote it down exactly as he said it and then looked back up at him. He ran a tongue between his lips and then pressed them together. "You can't go there."

The Winter Soldier's eyes snapped up to hers. "Why not?" he demanded.

Clara leaned away from his aggressive change in attitude and hastily explained. "I really want them to remove the pieces in your head first." He stayed silent, waiting. "It's been who knows how many years since you've been there—whatever is there is not going anywhere for the time being. Just give me two weeks. By then you should be completely free from Hydra."

His glare softened and he moved the paper to a different stack in front of them, laying it out away from the rest. "Alright."

"How much of the file is left?" she asked, slightly distracted by re-reading her notes.

"Not much. The rest looks like more psychological evaluations and general notes on the shock treatments and conditioning," he sighed. "I can translate those word for word for you later, if you want—they'll probably make more sense to you than me, anyways. None of this is about what _I've _done."

"Do you really want to read that file if it exists?" Clara asked softly.

"I don't know. Maybe."

"Don't do that to yourself," she advised, stretching out her legs and leaning heavily back against the door. "Don't make tallies, don't give them a name. Don't forget that it happened, but don't let it keep you from moving on."

"I've killed people, Clara."

"So have a lot of field agents," she countered. "So do soldiers in the war. But you can't let it hold you back from making things right, from atoning."

"The missions I remember—can I really move on from that?" he barely whispered. "Can I really atone for all that _blood_?"

"Only if you let yourself."

Someone tried to push open the door, but with the two sitting against it, it just painfully bumped into their backs. Clara scooted away from the door, the Winter Soldier reaching up to open it.

"Why are you guys sitting on the floor?" Tony asked. A small, misguided smirk made its way onto his face and while it went completely over the Winter Soldier's head, Clara was used to that kind of facial expression and glared.

"What do you need, Stark?"

He leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms. "Bruce and I wanted to discuss the procedure—but if you're both busy." The Winter Soldier stood swiftly and reached down with his flesh hand to help Clara off the floor. Tony's eyes examined the paper scattered around the room. "What were you two looking at in here, anyways?"

Clara stepped out into the hallway and slapped him across the face. "That's for calling Steve when I specifically told you _not _to."

Tony rubbed his cheek and moved so the Winter Soldier could follow them into the hall, closing the door behind him. "Well, you didn't specifically tell me not to. In fact, if memory serves, you just said we'd take it slow."

"Stark," Clara said, warning him.

"Dr. Maitland, if the roles had been reversed, if it had been me and Rhodey, I would want to know where my best friend was after I'd found out he wasn't actually dead," Tony explained, walking down the hall towards the elevators. "I was doing Cap a favor."

"But it wasn't you and Rhodey," Clara snapped, following him. "It was _him and Steve_. And _he _expressed that he didn't want Steve to know he was here."

"No, not what was expressed," Tony smirked, pressing the button to call the elevator. He glanced over at the other man and shrugged. "He said he didn't want to talk to Cap, and from what Bruce told me, he didn't."

"You're such a wanker sometimes," Clara muttered.

"Steve and I are not friends," the soldier pressed.

"Maybe, but at least Cap has some peace of mind knowing you're with the Avengers and not with Hydra," Tony stated flatly, turning his back on them.

Something in him deflated as he understood Tony's intentions. He reasoned with the man in his head—something he felt like he hadn't done in a while. Internally, he let it go, deciding not to let it bother him.

They all filed into Tony's office on one of the upper floors and filled in the three chairs in front of the desk, which Tony took his seat on the other side.

"So—I'm going to recommend we do this as soon as possible," Banner started. He glanced over at the soldier, then back to Tony. "We might have shorted out anything Hydra is using to track him, but there's no way to tell for sure unless we remove and destroy the material."

The Winter Soldier opened his mouth to speak, but Tony cut him off. "I've got military grade satellites and even my own tracking everything and everyone from SHIELD and known Hydra facilities," he assured. "No one is getting near this tower without clearance."

"Any idea where Clint and Natasha are?" Bruce asked—whether he was trying to make a point to Tony or not wasn't clear.

"Clint went off the grid two days ago in Spain. I can guarantee Romanoff went to rendezvous with him somewhere in Europe," Tony muttered, clicking away at his computer before spinning the monitor towards the others. "This is the guy I recommend for the procedure. He's brilliant, quick, and he was the one who got the shrapnel out of my body. He'll stay quiet."

"He _has_ to be sworn to secrecy," Clara pressed.

"How do we know he's not Hydra?" the Winter Soldier questioned.

"We don't," Bruce muttered. "But with the three of us in the same room, he'll only be able to do what we tell him—nothing more, and nothing less."

The Winter Soldier slid down in his seat a bit, completely contrasting with the soldier-esque postured he'd harbored for the last day or two. "If you're not completely sure he's not Hydra, I don't want it done." He started to bounce his leg and crossed his arms, looking each of them in the eye. "If he is Hydra, removing the chips will be pointless—they'll know where I am."

"If we _don't_, Hydra might find you anyways," Clara explained. She put a hand on his knee to keep it from bouncing. "That's a nervous habit associated with anxiety."

"Can you blame him?" Bruce grumbled.

Tony took a deep breath. "I trust this guy. I can have him here in two days." Tony paused and Clara could see him actually thinking about his words before he said anything. "Get a haircut, a new set of clothes. We'll come up with an alias—say you're a SHIELD agent with experimental implants. Your doctor died in the collapse of the SHIELD base, so you need the pieces removed."

"There's really no other choice," Clara whispered to him. "But it's still your choice."

"My choice," he murmured to himself. He weighed the options heavily in his mind. On one hand, he could run—none of these people would be hurt. He could hunt down Hydra on his own. A tempting choice, he realized.

On the other hand, he could wait, have the tech removed, and _then _go hunt down Hydra, ensuring he wasn't traceable. But it would put Clara at risk, he decided, looking up at her. She had been so kind to him with no motivation at all. What was she getting out of this? It had to go beyond her claims of just wanting to help him.

She could be Hydra.

Okay, but even if she wasn't, when she found out, in detail, all the things the Winter Soldier had done, she wouldn't want to help him any longer.

"Alright," he finally conceded. "How long will recovery take?"

"We estimate a week," Bruce said, standing.

"Alright, for now, why don't you guys go get something to eat—maybe a haircut and some clothes?" Tony suggested, pushing a credit card towards them. "Just don't go too crazy." He winked at Clara and she rolled her eyes, taking the plastic card and pocketing it.

"I'm not sure me leaving this tower is a good idea," the Winter Soldier muttered.

"Hydra's not gonna be able to find you—the city is still a bit chaotic from the destruction—no one will think twice," Clara said.

"I'm not worried about me—"

Bruce let out a dry laugh. "Kid, remind me to show you what I did to Harlem once," he muttered as he left. "You're not the only one with a history."

"C'mon," Clara sighed, gesturing for the soldier to follow her.

The Winter Soldier stood, but didn't follow the dark haired girl to the door. He stared down at Tony. "How do I know _you're _not Hydra?"

"You don't," Tony replied slowly. "But guess what, Soldier—_you _were."

The Winter Soldier's jaw clenched at the truth in Tony's words.

"Enough," Clara hissed, stepping between them. "We'll talk about it later—for now, let's go find something to eat—according to that file, Hydra fed you a bland diet when they weren't feeding you intravenously. You've got a lot to catch up on."

"Try Schwarma," Tony suggested as she closed his office door behind them.


	9. Chapter 9

_I make it a rule of thumb to only post a chapter when I have at least half of the next chapter done, so I've had this chapter done for a while. Sorry about that. Things got a bit busy when I got back to school._

_Shout out to everyone who noticed the Connie/Clara Doctor Who reference. Jenna Coleman played both Connie in Captain America: The First Avenger, and Clara in Doctor Who. So I decided to name my OC Clara after her :D There will be no Who crossover, though. Sorry._

_Review and let me know thoughts, questions, concerns, predictions, etc._

**Chapter 9**

"Someone is going to recognize the arm," the Winter Soldier grumbled as Clara sat on the bed, pulling on her shoes.

She just tossed him the jean jacket he'd worn before. "It'll be alright. Just wear that to cover the star. Stick your hand in your pocket if it bothers you that much, but I honestly don't think it's that recognizable."

He pushed his arms into the sleeves. "What do you mean?"

"News footage for the….attack on the bridge was limited. They didn't catch any clear footage of the actual fight—only blurry shots of a man with a mask, goggles, and a metal arm. And you were gone by the time the big news chopper got there."

"You're sure?" He followed her out of the room and down towards the bottom of the building.

"Positive. I was watching the news loop at the hospital before I met you, and I didn't recognize it," she said. They were silent walking out to the street. "So let's go get you a couple changes of clothes, a haircut, and it's still early so we can get a late lunch. Sound okay with you?"

"It's fine."

Clara hailed a taxi and they were both silent as it took them to the location she had directed the driver towards. It was a comfortable silence. One the Winter Soldier made no effort to fill. He was immensely confused. He didn't know what to do, and the possibilities swam in circles in his head.

He wasn't used to having so many decisions to make for himself. They were typically made _for _him, in most of the memories he had. From being forced into a war, to being captured by Hydra.

Who was he?

"So, did you guys have stores like this back in the 40s?" Clara asked once they got into the large department store.

"Something like it," he mumbled, looking around.

"Men's is this way."

He followed Clara down an aisle and then into rows and rows of racks. She stopped in front of shelves on a far wall and looked down at his waist. "Hm—pant sizes have probably changed in the last 70 years—you don't happen to know what size those are?" He shook his head and she held up a pair to his waist, and then picked out a couple of different sizes. "Go try these on in the fitting rooms to your left. I'm sure you know how to do that much." His eyebrows lifted, lips twitching. "I'll look for some shirts."

Moments later he came out to find her across the aisle, clothing draped over her arm. "Too big," he said, holding up one size, holding up the next size down, "too small." She took the pair that was too big and checked the size.

"We'll get like three of these. We'll pick up a belt, too." She passed over a bundle of hangers. "Try these on?"

He nodded and took her armload, heading back towards the dressing rooms. A major part of him recognized that she was making decisions for him, just like Hydra had done. And it nagged at him. But the more logical part, a part that was growing more and more prominent, rationalized that it was insignificant and they just needed to get it done.

He hung the shirts on the wall and couldn't stop the small smile from making itself present. She had picked out button ups. He had flashes of himself and Small Steve, from memories he had visited to things he'd never seen before. He and Steve were always in button-down shirts and slacks.

"Steve always wears these kinds of shirts when he's not battle-ready, so I figure it was because they're the most familiar to him," Clara explained when he'd returned, hanging back up the shirts that didn't fit. "Alright. We've got three sets of clothes and I picked out a belt for you. Boxers or briefs?"

The Winter Soldier blinked. "What?"

"Underwear. Boxers or briefs?" she asked again. His eyebrows rose, but he didn't respond. "What are you wearing right now?" Again, silence, and then a small smile spread slowly across her face. "Are you wearing anything right now?"

He was suddenly fidgety like he was back at the tower.

She grinned. "I'll let one of the boys help you out with that later. We need to pay and get going. You alright with all this?"

His jaw clenched and unclenched, but he nodded. "Yeah. It's fine. It's just clothing."

"Alright, well, let's go pay and then we'll get your hair cut."

He watched as Clara grinned and dumped the clothes onto the counter, Stark's card ready in her hands. He could feel the cashier's eyes on him and pushed his left hand into his pocket, right hand running through his hair to get it out of his face.

The Winter Soldier stood there, feeling awkward and out of place. A couple of days ago he'd been chaos incarnate in the streets. Today, he was buying clothing and getting a haircut. How had things changed so drastically in such a short amount of time?

Then again, in his life, this was not the first time things had done a one-eighty on him. The moment at the top of his list: getting drafted. Or maybe it was falling off a train to his not-really-death.

"Hello," Clara chirped as she walked past the soldier holding the door to the hair salon open for her. The shop was mostly empty, save for a man in his mid-thirties sitting behind a computer to their left. He looked up at Clara and smiled.

"Welcome, I'm Travis," he grinned, standing up. "What can I do for you this afternoon?"

The Winter Soldier jammed his left hand further into his pocket self-consciously as Clara explained that he was in need of a haircut. "Nothing special," Clara was telling him. "Just shorter."

"Alright, follow me, Hun." Jacob led him to a chair and motioned for him to sit. "Can you take off your jacket?" The Winter Soldier gave Clara a look, but complied. Travis lifted an eyebrow, but he didn't stare, just threw a cover over his shoulders. "So what brings you in to get a haircut today?"

"He's having surgery in a few days," Clara explained softly. The soldier kept quiet and wondered how much she was going to tell this stranger. He was beginning to wish he'd just told her he would cut it himself.

"Well, that's unfortunate." Jacob gently tipped the Winter Solder's head back and ran his fingers gently through the tangles. "When was the last time you got it cut, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Don't remember. 1940-something," he mumbled sarcastically. He felt Clara whack his flesh arm.

"He's kidding," she excused stiffly.

Travis laughed.

XXX

"Finally, let's go get lunch," Clara announced as she hailed down another cab. She looked over to the Winter Soldier, his fingers running through his much shorter hair. She offered up a small, reassuring smile. "It looks good short. I mean, it looked nice long, but this suits you, too."

"I remember getting it cut right before I left for Europe," he told her as they got into the cab.

"Oh yeah? Did you remember this in there?" She gestured back to the salon.

"In the chair. It wasn't like the others, though," he explained quietly. "It wasn't like it replayed in my head—I just realized that I had done this before and when I thought about it, I could replay it in my head."

"Totally normal," she assured him after giving the driver instructions. "Getting back memories after having amnesia of any form is always different for everyone."

"How long could it take?" he asked, voice barely audible. He kept his eyes away from her and out over the city.

"It varies," she responded sadly. "It's not what you're going to want to hear, but you may never get all of your memories back. Especially not with the way they were forcefully repressed."

"I just want to know who I am."

"I know," she sighed. "It's not going to happen in a week, I can assure you. But we'll figure it out."

He glanced at her. "Thank you."

"It's what I do," she shrugged.

The taxi pulled to the curb a few minutes later and they stepped out, the soldier looking up at the strip of buildings in front of him. He could see the tower not far away to his left—they were within walking distance of it.

"What are we doing here?"

Clara grinned and nudging him towards a door. "New York Style pizza," she announced. "I figured there had to have been pizza in the 40s—and who doesn't like pizza?" He didn't share her enthusiasm right away and he saw her deflate just a bit, but her smile never faltered. "It's good. I promise."

"I'm trusting you," he said finally, following her into the tiny restaurant.

Once he had the pizza in his hands, a sense of familiarity took over and he immediately folded it in half without thinking, and took a bite.

"Well, you are from Brooklyn," she giggled, cutting hers to pieces.

"That's how we do it here," he stated firmly with a smirk.

Clara smiled behind her napkin. He may not have noticed himself, but he was changing. She knew the changes would slow down as time went on, but he was slowly finding himself without realizing it. His expressions, his words—all unique to _him_.

But without someone who knew _Bucky_, who knew if he was reverting to his _old _self, or forging a new one. Either way—it was better than being the assassin phantom.

"What if we spent to day tomorrow traveling around New York?" she asked suddenly, placing her napkin on the table next to her empty plate. He'd finished his third slice long before she'd finished her second.

"What?"

"Well, since you're from Brooklyn, we can visit there," she offered. "Maybe visit some of the places Bucky has seen—of course, we don't have to. It's completely up to you."

"Completely up to me," he muttered to himself. To Clara, he said louder, "Are you doing that on purpose?"

"You have to be more specific."

"Giving me options—letting me decide. Are you doing that on purpose?" he demanded quietly.

"Kind of," she said. "I mean, part of it is, in the back of my head, I know Hydra didn't care what you wanted and disregarded any opinions you might have had, but part of it is human decency to ask what you want."

His eyes watched her carefully, eyebrows pulling together in that way that made him look lost and sad. He ran his tongue between his lips and pushed his empty plate further away from him. "Can we go back to the tower?"

Clara pulled out Stark's credit card and stood up, collecting their bags. "We sure can."


	10. Chapter 10

_THIS CHAPTER GOT AWAY FROM ME IT'S A BIT LONG MY BAD.  
_

_Also, you should go read the oneshot I posted today. It's not canon with my story, but it's amazing. My friend Ryan wrote it and I demanded he post it, but he gave me permission to post it instead. IT'S ABOUT BUCKY AND FEELS AND GO GO GO._

_As always, review and let me know thoughts, concerns, questions, predictions, etc._

EDIT: Thank you to SarcasticEnigma, whom let me know I'd made an error about schizophrenia vs dissociative identity disorder. I have corrected it in this chapter for future readers.

**Chapter 10**

Bucky fought the men holding him down to the chair. They grunted, speaking to one another in presumably German. A third soldier was at his thrashing legs, tying them down. It was his last chance to get away. Once he was tied down, Bucky knew that was it—he was a dead man.

With his legs secured, the soldier moved to his wrists, getting one attached easily. Bucky tried to resist, to scream, to break out of the bindings, but it was no use.

"It is useless," a heavily accented voice said to him. "You are going nowhere for the moment, and no one is coming for you."

"You don't know that," he spat at the short, fat man, even though Bucky knew full well that there was no rescue coming. Not here. The risks were too high to rescue them.

"You are a stubborn one," the man grinned, brandishing a needle. "I have high hopes for you, _Sergeant Barnes_,"

"What the hell is that?" he demanded as the needle neared his arm.

"Just a mild anesthetic before we give you the serum," he explained as he pushed the needle into Bucky's arm.

"What are you doing?" Bucky all but shouted at him as he began to walk to the other side of the room.

"Nothing you need to worry about right now." The man turned to one of the soldiers that had helped strap him in and spoke rapidly in another language.

"What the hell is going on, you bastard," Bucky panted, still pulling at the restraints.

"I will give you two injections now, and two more later," the fat man sneered, pushing one needle into his arm, passing the second needle to an aid that did the same thing to his other arm. Immediately a burning sensation made its way up his arms and to his chest. He felt his fingers go numb and his breathing turned erratic, fear pumping adrenaline through him.

"What the hell are you doing to me?" he shouted, convulsing, trying to escape the sudden mind-numbing pain overtaking his senses. His vision was fuzzy and he could no longer see the short, fat scientist or his Nazi friends.

Bucky felt a leather strap being shoved into his mouth. "We are going to wipe your mind clean. You are going to help us bring in a new era—a better future for the world."

"No," Bucky gasped around leather as a metal contraption was placed on his head.

Shortly after a German command, Bucky felt all of the muscles in his neck, shoulders, and back spasm. The pain was unbelievable—like nothing he'd ever felt. Thoughts bounced around his head and then out of reach. He couldn't think straight.

Where was he?

He couldn't remember.

A blond haired boy shot across his vision and he struggled to remember his name.

Steve?

Yes, Steve. Bucky clung to that thought. Steve. Steve Rogers. Steve Rogers was his best friend. Him. He was Bucky Barnes.

The pain shut off instantly, but he clung to the thought. The soldiers left the room, the scientist grinning and leaving himself.

"I'll be back soon."

James. "James Buchanan Barnes," he began to chant out loud, softly. "Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes. 32557." That's who he was. He was a name, and a number in the army. "James Buchanan Barnes. 32557."

Bucky wasn't sure how long he lay there, muttering to himself, unable to think of anything else. His whole body ached and he couldn't find the energy to fight the restraints anymore. No one was coming for him.

He didn't notice the gunfire in the background, but he heard the scientist return, his frantic steps echoing down the hall and in the room. He was gathering things from the counter top and shoving it all into a bag.

"Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes—"

"We will meet again," the man muttered, pushing another needle into his arm. "And I will be able to complete my work then. You shall be a _wonderful _asset."

The man took off out the door, but Bucky continued his chant. "James Buchanan Barnes. 32557."

A new set of footprints echoed down the hall. This set was heavier—a larger person. They stepped into the room, but Bucky continued his chant, his thoughts becoming no more organized than they had been.

"Bucky," someone breathed between puffs of air. "Oh, my god…" Bucky felt his ankles fall free from the restraints.

He let his head fall to the side to try and see who was there, but his vision was still fuzzy—he could make out the outline and vague shadows of a soldier. "Whossat?" he slurred.

"It's me," the person replied quietly, releasing his wrists. "It's Steve."

"Steve," he smiled recognizing the name. "Steve." Steve Rogers.

"Yeah, c'mon." Steve pulled Bucky up and let him slide off the gurney. He held Bucky upright and let him catch his breath and get a bit of his bearings. "I thought you were dead."

Bucky looked him over, wondering what exactly that short, fat man had done to him. Did he alter his memories? Was this really Steve? "I thought you were smaller," he managed.

A loud snap and machine gunfire drew Steve's attention away from Bucky.

With an uneven gasp, the Soldier's eyes flew open and he pushed against the hard surface holding him up, nearly falling to the floor when the stool he'd been sitting on tipped and fell over.

Clara's head snapped up to the sudden noise. "You alright?" He stood stone still, looking around the room. "Do you know where you are?"

"Vaguely." He forced himself to relax and kneaded his temples. "A tower. In New York City. We had pizza." His fingers slid back and touched his hair. "And a haircut."

Clara smiled and turned back to her work. "Right. We're in Stark Tower. We went out shopping, got some lunch. We came back and you fell asleep."

The soldier nodded slowly. "Nothing happened."

"Nope," Clara confirmed. "Stark and Dr. Banner came in to collect a few of his notes, but otherwise I've been sitting here going through some notes. You can go back to your room and sleep, if you want."

"I can't."

Clara stopped working at glanced up at him. "Why not? You only got about an hour and a half of sleep here. You must still be tired." He didn't respond, only righted the stool against the wall and took his seat, leaning onto an empty metal lab table with his left arm. "Did you dream just now?"

"It wasn't a dream," he muttered after a moment. "At least I don't think it was. How do I know what's a dream and what's a memory?"

"That's hard to say. There are four stages of sleep. Dreams occur in the latter stages. During these stages, the limbic system is a bit active. Psychologists believe dreams are just the brain's way of trying to make sense of this activity," Clara explained, leaning against her desk casually, pen tapping the desk absently as she looked to the ceiling in thought. "As for whether or not a dream is a memory—you'd need a second person to confirm it. Care to talk about it?"

The Winter Soldier gazed at her tiredly. "Did you ever visit the exhibit in the Smithsonian?"

"No, I've never been there personally, but I know a bit of the information that's there."

"Captain America's first mission."

Clara raised a single eyebrow and leaned into her palm. "Saving the men of the 107th. That was in your file."

"I know how Bucky survived the fall." Clara's face smoothed out at those words, but she held her tongue until he was finished explaining. "Hydra was experimenting on him. Steve interrupted the procedure. They had tried the electroshock therapy but it hadn't taken hold yet, he still remembered Steve."

"So you remember being saved by Steve during the war," Clara clarified.

"I remember being _tortured _during the war," he corrected a bit aggressively.

"Okay," Clara nodded. "Do you feel like you are figuring out who 'you' are?"

His eyes danced around the room suddenly, that sad look he'd taken to filling his features. "I don't know."

"The thing that worries me is how you referred to the person in that memory as 'Bucky.' I want to caution you against labeling and defining these personalities. If you give each personality in your head a name, then they are essentially different people. I know it's a defense mechanism to pretend these are separate people."

"But they are," he argued.

Clara gave him a sad smile and walked over to him. "No, they are both _you. _They come from here," she murmured, pointing to his chest before moving it to his temple, "and here. You're still Bucky, but the Winter Soldier is still a part of you, too. What you did—while not your fault—still happened. You _have _to understand that and forgive yourself." She hopped up onto the table, but kept her eyes on him. "You have to move on and find a way to atone. But, while it's common to create another persona to help you cope with what happened, it's not healthy. That's called dissociative identity disorder and that's not a good thing to let happen."

"How can I do that?" he asked her. "How do I atone for two dozen murders?"

"Live and help people," she suggested easily. "Help more people than you've hurt."

"So that the good outweighs the bad." He tilted his head down to his lap and ran his flesh hand through his hair, gently tugging on the short ends. "How can I be Bucky if I don't know who he is?"

"A person changes constantly. We evolve over time and become new people every day," she pressed. "I'm not the same Clara I was ten years ago, or even the same Clara I was last week."

He took a deep breath and stood. "I think…_I _was a slightly bitter person during the war."

Clara smiled and watched him walk towards the table she had been working at, but kept her seat on the table. "Yeah?"

"While I was lying there, and the scientist was talking to me, telling me what an asset I'd be, I remember thinking the army wasn't coming." He found it slightly odd and out of place to think of Bucky as himself, but he found himself trusting Clara's advice even though he'd only known her a couple of days. He was getting to trusting, he decided.

"Why don't you keep a diary or a journal?" Clara suggested, sliding off the counter. She hesitated when he looked up at her. "My—my grandmother did. I read them when she passed away. They were really interesting. She wrote in one that it helped her sort her thoughts. One particular occasion she said it helped her begin to move on."

He didn't answer her right away, instead, he looked back to her work, flipping through the pages of psychological terms and phrases he couldn't decipher. "I thought all this was in Russian."

"It was. Stark came in while I was working on the other notes and he ran them through a computer. JARVIS translated them for me. Took about an hour. I've only just started going through them."

"What do they say?" He almost didn't want to ask, and her face turned grim when he did.

"Well," she sighed, leaning past him to grab her notebook. She flipped back a few pages and took a breath. "Basically, they tried out different levels of electroshock therapy before they found one strong enough to overpower the serum they gave you."

"What does the electroshock _do_?" he demanded. "How did a few hundred volts of electricity erase so many of my memories?"

"Try a few _thousand _volts," she corrected. "And they didn't erase them—the electricity just activated a defense mechanism in your brain that repressed the memories. It's a way for the brain to cope with the trauma. They're all still there, it's just that now the brain is having trouble accessing them." She looked back down at her notes. "Once they found the right voltage for that, it was all conditioning. You've got three parts of a personality-the conscious part was more or less wiped clean, the subconscious stuff was what was still going strong—your morals. They manipulated that. The unconscious is where they repressed the memories _to_."

"They fed me lies?" His eyes found hers. He was angry—rightfully.

"More like twisted truths. Probably told you your missions were for the greater good."

A more recent memory bubbled to the surface of his mind.

"The man on the bridge, who was he?" he had asked.

"You met him earlier this week on another assignment." The man—Pierce, he knew now—had sat down on a stool in front of him so that they were eye level.

The Winter Soldier had glanced back at his superior. "I knew him."

"Your work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped the century. And I need you to do it one more time," Pierce explained. "Society is at a tipping point between order and chaos. Tomorrow morning we're giving it a push. But you don't do your part—I can't do mine. And Hydra can't give the world the freedom it deserves."

He wanted to give the world freedom, just like he was being asked. "But I knew him." And he wanted to know why.

He blinked and looked at Clara. "They told me I was helping."

"And you probably believed it wholeheartedly. Which is why it's not your fault."

"I was brainwashed?" he demanded, flipping through the Russian papers. "Does it say who dealt with it?"

She placed a hand on top of the papers to keep him from frantically searching for names. "It's not brainwashing in the science fictional sense. There's more psychology to it. But you can _call _it that."

"Does it say who did this to me?" he demanded, voice low and dangerous.

Her face smoothed out again to an expressionless poker face and her head cocked slightly. "First off, you will not be speaking to me like that if you want answers from me," she told him. "I don't demand respect, but I'm here to help you." Her voice softened suddenly. "Secondly, no. There are no names in any of those papers as far as I can tell."

He looked down at her and realized how close they were. "Sorry," he muttered, pulling back away from her work.

"It's alright. I'm not under the illusions you're not moody," she chuckled, searching through her papers for a second notebook. "Women have changed since the 40s. Anyways, here." She pulled a few pages out of the notebook, and stuck a pen in the spine. "Use this as your journal for now."

He took it from her gently. "Thanks."

"Go get some sleep. It'll help with the mood swings and your memory. Sleep heals."

He silently walked to the door and heard her getting back to her work. "Thank you, Clara."

"Oh, yeah," she called to him when he reached the door. "Figure out what you want to be called. No rush, just, we need something to call you."

He didn't respond. He just left the room quickly, making his way to his room. Needing to be alone was his top priority. He hadn't meant to lose control, but he had, and his whole being was filled with regret. A feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time.

He welcomed the feeling.


	11. Chapter 11

_Sorry I haven't updated D: I started my new job. Went in for orientation on Thursday and they were like "Here's your schedule." And then I worked Friday and Saturday. But this chapter kinda maybe sorta got away from me and is almost 1500 longer than I usually write so…_

_As always, please review with comments, questions, concerns, predictions, etc. _

_And don't forget to check out the BuckyxConnie oneshot my friend wrote. (I posted it for him, so check my profile :D)_

**Chapter 11**

"Hey, wake up."

The words were barely decipherable in the haze of sleep, but he recognized the voice.

"C'mon, now," the voice said, pushing his shoulder. "I really wanted to let you sleep, but you need to eat something."

"Not hungry," he mumbled, still not thinking clearly.

A laugh echoed in the room. "You've eaten a good meal once in probably the last seventy years. Get up, we're going to the cafeteria. Then you can come back and sleep as much as you want to." Clara pushed his shoulder again until he was lying on his back, blinking into the light on the ceiling.

"I feel exhausted," he groaned, rubbing his face with his flesh hand.

"Well, you only slept for about two hours. But we had a late lunch and I figure there's probably no one in the cafeteria right now. Stark says they have hamburgers. You've had those before, right?"

"Yes." He sat up and made his way to the door, Clara close behind him. "About earlier," he started, not turning to look at her.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry," he said. He pressed the button on the elevator then finally looked over at her. She had her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, a smile on her face.

"I told you. It's alright." The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. He motioned for her to go ahead of them. Once they were inside and the doors shut, she looked up at him. "Do you regret it?"

"Yes," he replied instantly.

"That's progress. That's how you know Hydra has no hold over you anymore," Clara stated happily, watching the numbers change above them. "That's how you know you're healing."

He watched her carefully until the doors opened and she all but ran out and into the cafeteria. She was about the size Steve was before he'd gotten the serum and shot up several feet. But she looked like Connie. The familiarity was almost a little overwhelming.

Why did he trust her so much after having met her only a couple of days ago? Probably because there was nothing to lose at this point, he conceded. What would trusting her psychological advice do to him? The things she was saying made sense, for the most part. Regret _hadn't _been a part of him when he was with Hydra.

He followed Clara and let her help him get his food on a tray and make it to a seat in the corner at an empty table.

"So," Clara started when he took his first bite, eyes widening slightly. He stared down at his hamburger as he chewed and Clara smiled. "Good?"

"I remember these," he stated, taking another bite.

"Well, that's good." She took a bite of hers and they ate in silence for a few minutes until she got up the nerve to speak again, knowing it would only bring down his mood. "So, I have a suggestion you might not like."

He stopped eating for a minute then took a sip of his water. "What?"

"I really, really think you should talk to Steve."

"No," he refused quickly.

"Please—"

"No."

He wouldn't look at her now; he focused on the rest of his food. "Explain to me your aversion to seeing Steve. Please, because I'm lost," Clara said, trying hard not to sound as exasperated as she felt.

"Because of who Steve is and what I remember of him—what I've read," he explained between bites. "I remember the day I got drafted. I remember the feeling of dread—I didn't want to go to war. But I remember not telling Steve because he wanted nothing more than to serve our country."

"Because of his size and his health."

"I remember two different times I had to pull bullies off him. I know there had to have been more times, but that's all I remember. Steve doesn't like bullies."

"And you think that's what the Winter Soldier is," Clara realized.

"At an extremely basic level, yes."

Clara crossed her arms on the tabletop and waited for his to finish his water. "You think he'll hate you?"

"No, and that's the problem. The way he looked at me on the bridge, on the Helicarrier—when we were fighting on the Helicarrier, he told me he was my friend. I told him he was my _mission_. Then he told me to finish it. And he gave up." He leaned back in his chair. "I was shocked. My missions always put up a tremendous fight. No one _wants _to die. But Steve was ready to."

Clara pressed her lips together and looked down at the table. "You were his best friend."

"Let's put a little more emphasis on _were_."

"Yes—let's," Clara said. "Because last time he saw you—you were dead to him. The last time he saw you, you fell from a train."

"I remember," he growled quietly.

"So put yourself in his place—if Steve had been the Winter Soldier, had literally come back from the dead, would you want to give up on him?"

The man was silent. What would that be like? As if he hadn't thought of thousands of "what ifs" already. But the fact of the matter, the point his mind couldn't seem to get past was—_would _he have really behaved like Steve if their situations would reversed?

Answer? He might never know because he didn't know who he had been enough to know how he would have reacted.

He ran a tongue over his lips and crossed his arms. "What do I even say to him?"

"Whatever you want."

"I don't even know what we'd talk about," he sighed. He stood up and piled her trash on his tray, tucked her tray under his, and took both to the trash.

"You could tell him what you remember—let him help you fill in ay blanks you might have," she suggested as they made their way back to the elevator.

"I _can't_," he decided suddenly, mashing the up button for the elevator.

"You're just being stubborn, at this point, I think," she said. "Suck in your pride and talk to your friend. If you don't know what to talk about, let Steve do the talking—I'm sure he'll think of something."

There was silence in the elevator until it dinged at their floor and let them off. He headed back down the hall towards his room, but stopped suddenly, his back still to her. "When do I have to see him?"

"You don't _have _to do anything," she said, crossing her arms. "As your doctor I'm advising you to wait to see him until you're ready. As your friend, I'm telling you to talk to him, because he's only going to wait until the end of the week before he comes back here. That's as long as I could hold him off."

"Right." He didn't move, but she noticed him shift his weight from one foot to the other. "Friends? Is that what we are?"

"A friend is someone you have a mutual bond with," she defined. "I'd like to think we've _bonded _a bit."

Slowly he turned to her and jammed both his hands in her pockets, eyes watching her carefully. "Can I see him before the surgery the day after tomorrow? I have something I want to ask him about—something I want to check."

"Yeah, sure, I'll give him a call," she murmured, taken aback. "But can I ask, why the sudden change in heart? Literally five minutes ago—"

"I just remembered something. I want to ask him about it—to make sure it's _mine,_" he explained. "Not Hydra's."

"Right. Okay. I'll call him tonight—you go back to sleep. Tomorrow we can take a trip to Brooklyn if you'd like."

The Winter Soldier nodded and made his way to his room, heart pounding in his chest. So many decisions he had made himself. It felt…good.

XXX

Clara stood in front of the elevators, but didn't press a button. "JARVIS? Where is Mr. Stark?"

"Mr. Stark left the building with Ms. Potts approximately two hours ago," came the response.

"Okay," she said, changing gears. "Well, do you happen to have Steve Rogers' mobile number?"

"Mr. Stark does not store that information on a server that you have clearance to access," the AI responded. Clara felt herself deflate. "But Dr. Banner is on the fiftieth floor, in lab number 8."

She smiled. "Thank you, JARVIS," she chirped, making her way down to the labs. When she got there, Bruce was hunched over a report, several of the monitors pulled close around him. He glanced up as she walked in as quietly as she could.

"I'll be with you in a second," he muttered distractedly. He taped one of the monitors and a few of the graphs she could see changed their values. He jotted down a few notes and then straightened up, taking off his glasses. "What can I do for you, Dr. Maitland?"

"Tony left for the night—I was hoping you had Steve's mobile number," she explained, leaning against the table.

"Yeah, sure," he muttered, pulling out his own phone and a scrap piece of paper. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, everything is as good as it can be for now, I guess," she told him, watching his scratch down the numbers. "He just agreed to talk to Steve, but he wants to do it before the surgery."

"Fair enough." He handed her the number and walked back to his station. "Let me know if you need anything else."

"Thank you."

She sighed and pressed her back into the wall, legs crossed beneath her. Papers were strewn out across the bed in front of her. The lamp on a small bedside table next to her gave off a dull yellow glow, but didn't offer too much assistance in the ways of actually reading the papers—though she knew what they all said.

Clara pulled her phone out of her pocket and dialed the number on the slip of paper that was balanced on her knee. She glanced at the clock on the wall while it rang, hoping nine at night was not too late for him.

"Hello?"

"Steve? This is Clara Maitland."

"Oh." He sounded a bit surprised. "How are you? How is Bucky doing?"

She smiled at his enthusiasm. "Well, he told me he wants to talk to you before his surgery."

"The surgery to remove the tech in his head? You're sure he wants to see me?" He sounded skeptical and she couldn't blame him. But the sooner she could set this meeting in stone, the better. That way the soldier couldn't back down.

"Right. He's doing…well, considering." She tucked the phone between her shoulder and her ear and flipped through some of the pages on the bed in front of her, a pinching sensation building in her eyes. "The file you gave me—some of the things they did," she choked out, embarrassed at the blatant emotion in her voice. "It was quite horrible. Electroshock therapy, cryo-freeze, intense conditioning…I don't want to go into detail over some of the sessions they wrote about because I don't want to step on his trust in me, but…"

"Don't tell me anything you're not comfortable with, as long as you're sure he won't hurt himself," Steve assured her gently, voice soft and assuring. This man led armies, she reminded herself.

She took a few breaths and put the papers back on the bed, running a hand over her face. "We're, uh, we're going to Brooklyn tomorrow."

"It's not the same," he responded sadly. "A few buildings here and there, but it's changed a lot. Not sure how much he'll remember about it."

"He remembers a bit about Connie," Clara told him, voice a bit stronger. "He remembers when they met."

"Oh," Steve sighed with a laugh. "I remember her. They were real sweet on each other. Longest girl he was with, I think. Kept trying to hook me up with her friends."

"She's my grandmother," Clara blurted. "She left diaries and pictures. When I was in the hospital for a cut after SHIELD collapsed, he was there getting his shoulder set. I recognized him from the photos." The emotion had seeped back into her voice, remembering the words in the diaries, the pure, raw emotion her grandmother had written about. "It was kind of confirmed when he called me Connie—he thought I was my grandmother."

Steve had been silent though her entire confession and she wondered in the back of her mind if he had hung up or if the call had dropped. But she continued to speak anyways, getting the words out could only make her feel better. She let out a loud breath. "I'm too emotionally attached," she stated firmly. "I shouldn't be his doctor anymore. I should talk to Stark about finding—"

"No," Steve interrupted. "Please, continue with what you've been doing. You got Bucky to agree to talk to me. That's an improvement, considering he was trying to kill me a few days ago."

"The file you gave me—this is downright horrifying to a degree I've never seen before," she muttered.

"Please, Clara. Hydra can be anywhere—anyone. Sometimes you just need to trust a stranger. Bucky did, and he found you. And you're helping," he explained quickly. "Please, just keep at it until he recovers from the surgery."

"Alright."

"Do you still have Connie's diaries?" Steve asked her suddenly.

Clara cleared her thought and looked towards her duffle bag in the corner. "Yeah. Way ahead of you—I brought a few relevant ones with me. I just needed something to compare with, to make sure it was him. I was considering giving them to him."

"It's up to you," he said, "but maybe it will help him. I'm just glad there's someone there to help him since I can't."

"He's remembering you," she assured him. "Slowly—some good, some bad. Just think before you say things in front of him to keep from upsetting him."

"What kinds of things has he remembered, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Like I said, he remembers a bit about Connie, he remembers you—you saving him and the rest of the 107th. He wasn't sure that one was real. But he was adamant that whatever they did to him in the lab that day was what saved him from the fall."

"So he remembers the train," Steve guessed, voice flat.

"Let him tell you what he remembers," she advised. "He said something about how he wanted to ask you something. Make sure something was his and not Hydra's."

"Any idea what that might be?"

"Not a clue. But the surgery is the day after tomorrow, I'll tell Tony to call you with more details—he's the one setting it all up."

"Thank you, Clara," Steve pressed. "Really. For everything."

"It's what I do. I'll see you then."

XXX

The Soldier was awake when she knocked lightly on the door around nine the next morning, poking her head in when he called out a quiet permission for her to enter. He was standing in front of a window across the room, shirt in his hand.

He could feel her eyes on him and quickly turned towards her, pulling on his shirt, fingers making quick work of the buttons.

"Want to ride around Brooklyn?" she asked, pushing the door open wider to lean on the frame.

He put his hands in his pockets and nodded. Clara led the way down the hall slowly. The Soldier noted that she'd pulled her hair back with a tie. In all of his memories of Connie—from their first meeting at the pub, numerous random memories of them dancing, laughing, and kissing, to their last night together at the expo, not once had Connie's hair been pulled back like that.

It was different, and he liked the distinction between the two.

"Hey, JARVIS," Clara called out and waited for a reply.

"Yes, Dr. Maitland?"

"What year was IHop founded?"

"IHop was founded in 1958 in Toluca Lake, California."

"What's IHop?" he dared to ask, seeing her face light up.

"Oh, this is going to be a great morning. You'll love it," she told him as they got on the elevator, a huge grin on her face.


	12. Chapter 12

_Everyone who wanted the IHop scene is gonna be disappointed. Sorry! Anyways, moving on! I'm trying to update as much as I can before Friday because I work at a movie theater so I'm working ALL weekend. Thank you, Spider Man. I'm going to miss Free Comic Book Day now :C_

Review and let me know thoughts, concerns, questions, predictions, etc!

**Chapter 12**

"Anything that looks familiar?" she asked quietly as they looped through the roads in a car Stark had loaned to her for the day.

"Not really," he grumbled. "It all looks…"

"New," she supplied.

"Right."

Clara turned onto a road that looped around the outskirts of the town. Buildings lined the street on the right, but endless grass fields dotted with trees and gravestones stretched out to their left. She noticed the soldier perk up and lean forward to see around her. She was already looking for a parking place of the side of the road before he even asked her to stop.

"You recognize this cemetery?" she asked him as they got out.

"Yes," he grunted, leading the way across the road and down a foot path.

"Don't do this to yourself," she advised warily, catching up to his fast pace.

"It's not war related." They walked for a minute or two, moving quickly towards a far corner, when he stopped suddenly.

"Oh."

He stared wide-eyed at his own name carved into a stone. One Barnes in a line. His was between two other plots. He pointed to the one on the right. "That's my sister," he whispered. To the one on the left, "that's my mother." The one on the other side of hers. "My father."

"I'm sorry," she managed. She wanted to comfort him somehow, in some way other than her words. She wanted to take his hand so that he had some form of physical comfort. But she hesitated, unsure of how he would react.

"Everyone dies," he stated bluntly. He kicked at the grass at the end of his own grave. "It's empty, though." He held up his metal hand and wiggled the fingers a little. "Unless it's not."

"Are you making _jokes_," she mock gasped, staring up at him.

A smile flit across his face, a short lift of the corners of his mouth. "My sister got married," he muttered. His heart sunk. He hadn't met her husband. He hadn't met _any _of her dates. He hadn't been there for her wedding. Nothing. "Rebecca Proctor." He didn't remember much of her, but he remembered loving her despite the gap in their ages.

"So you could still have family out there," Clara noted lightly, only to be shot down.

"My family is dead." He turned on his heel and headed down a different path, seeming to know where he was going. He stopped in front of a new set of graves.

"Steve got a grave, too," Clara whispered, pointing. "Are those his parents?"

"Yeah," the soldier breathed. "I remember when his mom died." His face was tilted down towards the headstones, but his eyes were not looking at them. They were distant. Remembering.

"How much of your life before do you remember?" she asked, choosing her words carefully.

"Enough to know Bucky died a hero. His grave is back there," he responded, gesturing back down the path the way they'd come. Before she could respond—lightly scold him for what he'd said—he changed the subject. "Is your family buried here in the States or in England?"

"Well," she started slowly, deciding to take this opportunity. "I told you my grandmother lived here in New York—my dad's family is from England. But my grandmother and my mom are actually buried here. My grandmother is from Brooklyn."

He turned to look at her suddenly. "Buried here as in, _the US _here, or _this cemetery _here?"

She bit her lip and led the way across the cemetery to a grave marker that she was more familiar with, knowing the cat was out of the bag, so to speak.

The Winter Soldier watched her lead the way this time, eyes flicking over his shoulder towards the graves of his family. She came to a stop and he almost ran into her. His blood ran cold when he looked at the marker. It was worn and dirty but the name, the inscription, _the photo_—they were as clear as if it had been carved into the stone yesterday.

_Connie Louise Warner  
January 21, 1919- November 14, 1995_

The Soldier swallowed roughly. He could feel his face getting hot, but his eyes refused to leave the sepia photo of the young, black-haired girl. The photo had been taken later in her life, but she was just as he had remembered her. Dark eyes and hair, dainty smile with the dimple.

"We do kind of look similar," she noted quietly.

"Did you know before that Connie was your grandmother?" he managed with difficulty.

"I had my suspicions," she murmured. He could feel her eyes on him but he couldn't bring himself to look away from the photo of Connie. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you before."

"Is that why you're helping me?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know." She sighed and turned back towards the car. "I talked to Steve about it when I called him last night." He followed her slowly, watching her glance at the markers as they passed them. "I have these diaries she wrote. You're mentioned in a lot of the earlier ones. I have them in the car."

What could he say to her? Clara was Connie's granddaughter. But it wasn't anything Clara did that upset him. It was knowing that Connie had moved on, forgotten about him. She'd started a family, got married, had children. She'd lived her life completely and he hadn't been around to witness it.

The Winter Soldier blinked into another time. He was sitting at a booth inside some old burger joint. Empty plates had been pushed aside. It was early evening—there weren't too many occupied booths, but the sun was bright on the horizon to his right.

"Alright," the girl across from him sighed, dark wavy hair bouncing as she sat up straighter. "Tell me what's wrong?"

He pressed his lips together and shook his head. "What are you talking about?"

She cocked her head, eyebrows rising. "C'mon, Bucky. I know you. You demanded we go out tonight, you haven't been yourself in a coupla days. Tell me."

Bucky ran his tongue between his lips and averted his eyes, focusing instead on an older couple sitting a few booths away along the far wall to his left. "Nothing's wrong," he said with a forced smile. Connie shook her head.

"Why can't you tell me?" she murmured.

"Because I can't even tell Steve," he replied, finally meeting her gaze. It was as close to an admission as he would get—as close to saying the words. Like he knew it would, he watched the realization wash over her face. She blinked in surprise, at first, and then connected the dots. Her eyebrows pulled together and her eyes got wide and shiny.

"Did you enlist or—"

Bucky shook his head. "Steve needs me here—I can't just leave. I'm all the family he's got now—"

Connie's hand flew to her mouth with a gasp and she tucked into herself, shoulders shaking. Bucky pulled out his wallet and dropped a few bills on the table before standing up and helping Connie out of the booth. She wrapped her arms around him and let him lead her out of the building.

"C'mon, Connie," he breathed, pulling her towards a bench across the street. "Everyone knows this could happen."

"I know—" She took the handkerchief he was holding out for her and dabbed at her face as he pulled her down gently onto the bench next to him. Her face was red, eyes wide as she looked up at him. "I just…"

Bucky pressed his lips to hers suddenly, hands slipping through her hair at the base of her neck. When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead on hers and sighed. "Let's go dancing—one last time—"

She pulled away from him suddenly, eyebrows pulled together. "No," she cried. "We'll go dancing again when you come back, too."

A grin spread across his face and he pulled the girl back to him, pecking her on the cheek. "Yeah?" he laughed. "You really gonna wait for me?"

Connie just smiled.


	13. Chapter 13

_Okay yeah so I worked like 30 hours over the weekend since it was prom weekend for the little high school kiddies and also opening weekend of Spider-Man 2. My apologies on the delay…_

_I had to make a professional facebook page for my art and animation, so check it out at facebookDOTcom/kimwagnerart_

_As always, questions, comments, concerns, predictions, etc—leave a review :D_

**Chapter 13**

"Hey, Big Guy, the little lady here can't carry you to her car, and I'm really in no shape to do it myself." The voice seeped into his consciousness and prodded him towards the surface. "I'm gonna need you to wake up."

"Something's really wrong this time," a worried voice stated. "He hit his head pretty damn hard."

A hand lifted his head up near the base of his neck and gently poked a tender spot. He let out a breath at the sudden pain he wasn't expecting and his eyes flew open. Tony and Clara hovered over him, but the bright sun had him shutting his eyes as he sat up.

"Are you okay?"

"Headache," he muttered, moving to stand.

Clara pressed down on his shoulders. "Just sit for a minute—you've been out cold for almost an hour. I had to fight off everyone who walked by and wanted to call an ambulance—I convinced them you were narcoleptic."

Whatever _that _meant. "I'm fine," he grunted, standing anyways. His head was throbbing where it had made contact with the concrete, but he was otherwise stable on his feet. "I don't remember falling."

"You were out cold before you even hit the ground," Clara explained. "You stopped walking, I turned around, and you just collapsed to the ground. I didn't know what to do so I called Stark."

"We'll need to get your head looked at by Banner when we get back," Tony said, crossing his arms. "There was a bit of a problem—I couldn't get the guy I originally wanted out here this week."

"What? Then what are we gonna do?" Clara asked.

Tony held up a hand. "Taken care of already. SHIELD was heavily monitoring a neurosurgeon, ironically. I contacted him, we talked a bit. He'll be here by lunch tomorrow."

"How do you know he's not Hydra?" the soldier demanded.

"I know you're Hydraphobic, but I'm Tony Stark—master of questioning SHIELD and everything in it," Tony muttered, walking away. "Trust me, Tin Soldier. I did my research."

Clara blew air between her lips loudly and looked up at him warily. "He means well?" she smiled.

"He's familiar," was the only response. "I feel like I've met him before."

"C'mon. Let's go back to the car." Clara motioned for him to head down the path first and he obeyed. "So…"

"What?"

She fidgeted with her fingers and pressed her lips together, smiling. "Did you—you know. Remember anything?"

He let out a short laugh. "Yeah."

Noticing his change in attitude, she felt a little more hesitant, wondering how much more she should press on about it. "Happy or not happy?"

"Not happy," he muttered, opening the driver's side door before heading for his door on the other side.

Once they were in, she leaned around the driver's seat and pulled four books out of her bag, holding them out to him. "You don't have to read them, but they're here if you want them. Keep them for a while."

The Soldier took the stack and laid them in his lap. Each book was different, but two were clearly much older than the others. He opened the cover of one of the older ones. The date on the first page was from 1942. The other was from 1939. He picked up a third—1988. The last one was from 1995 and wasn't completely filled.

A picture slid from the pages and fluttered to the ground at his feet. He could see the worn edges, the deteriorated image before he even picked it up.

"Is this how you recognized me?" he asked quietly, looking over the photo. She had been in a white dress, hand laced with his; he'd been in full uniform. It was taken a couple of days before the expo.

"Clara's eyes flicked over to the photo for a second as she drove. "No, not that one. She had a couple of pictures of you, but that was the one she was using as a bookmark in that diary."

"Thank you."

Clara smiled at him. "Keep them as long as you want—they were collecting dust in a box in my closet back in DC."

He flipped open to the first page of the oldest one, immediately recognizing the loopy cursive writing. Flipping through the pages, something in his heart jumped when he saw the name Bucky appear more and more often.

Deep inside—and he'd never admit it to Clara—he was looking forward to clearing some things up with Steve.

XXX

Clara had thankfully left him to himself when they returned to the tower, wordlessly pressing the button for the rooms they were staying in and the button for Tony's office. She'd offered up only a smile as he got off the elevator, diaries tucked under his flesh arm.

That's how he found himself sitting on the floor, back against the door. It was the easiest way to secure the room—he blocked the only entrance with his eyes on the window.

He flipped open to the first page of the oldest diary, skimming the words quickly, noting only the content. The first few pages were about family, friends, her day, and trivial things like her dresses. The first entry he found with him in it had been from the night they'd met in the bar.

_He was really very sweet, _she'd written. _He promised to take me dancing again sometime. He better keep that promise. No good starting off something if he can't hold up a deal._

Her account of the events matched up with what he remembered, however short that memory was.

_We danced for a long time—I enjoyed myself more than I had thought I would. After we left the bar, later than I had intended to, he walked me home like a true gentleman. _

He flipped to the next entry she had written, a couple days after they'd met.

_I met Bucky at the diner on the corner today by accident. I was on my way home when he called my name from across the street. My heart had never beaten to hard in my life. Especially when he asked me to have lunch with him. He said he was waiting for a friend and had quite a bit of spare time and wouldn't mind spending some with me._

_While we waited for our order, he told me about his closest friend, Steve. Bucky says Steve is the closest thing he has to a brother. The way he spoke about him—the look on his face was so fond, so gentle. He says I can meet Steve real soon if I wanted, but that implies I would be willing to see him again._

_He's a sly one, that Bucky…_

The soldier flipped through a few more entries of similar content, unsure of the words he was reading. The person she described with such fondness felt so familiar, like a memory just out of reach. This person was on the tip of his tongue, but it still felt like a foreign concept to him, that _he _was this person.

While none of the entries were sparking any memories, he trudged on, hearing Connie's voice in his head reading her own words into his mind's ear. Something bubbled in his chest and set a warmth in his chest and a chill in his veins.

_Oh, my heavens, I don't think the words I am about to write down here will do this night justice. Bucky came and picked me up unexpectedly and took me to a picture. It was wonderful. He held my hand the whole time, his fingers fitting between mine like they were made to be there. We walked all the way back to my place. Slowly. He pointed out stars and constellations Steve had told him about. We got to the doorway and he took my hands in his and kissed me until I thought I'd suffocate._

He continued to read through her entries. Time flew by and he wasn't sure when it had happened, but the sun was no longer visible out the window. He relocated to the bed, turning on the bedside lamp as he adjusted himself against the headboard.

By the end of the first diary, nearly eight months of time had passed in her stories. In his mind, he was piecing together something. Bucky—_he _had gone through some changes. This was not the person he'd read about at the Smithsonian. This version of himself was a lot happier with the world around him. He had yet to experience the war.

And the soldier knew exactly the point in Connie's diaries that he'd gotten the draft. He himself couldn't remember the date the letter had arrived, but the tone of her entries changed. There was an entire week and a half of no entries after one in particular where she mentioned that he barely looked at her. After that, the worried tone of her writing seemed to carry on and on.

Then came the entry he was expecting. 

_Oh, this is awful. I don't even know what to do. Bucky has been drafted. Everyone of age knows it's bound to happen to them one day, I was just so caught up in everything that was going on with us—how well it was going, too! _

_I feel blindsided, like I've been slapped. More than that, I feel foolish. I should have seen this coming. But Bucky's face the whole dinner when he finally told me. Do you know what this fools first concern was? Not himself! Steve!_

_I couldn't contain my emotions at that point. The most selfless person I have ever met in my entire life is going to go _lose _his life somewhere overseas, away from me, away from his best friend and his family._

_What if he doesn't come home? Oh, heavens, I don't even know how Bucky is handling this. He must be terrified…_

The tense muscles in his arms and back began to ache with fatigue and he wondered how long he'd been that tense. Forcing himself out of that world, he closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders, listening to the whirring in his left arm.

After a few minutes, he returned to the pages, plowing through the next handful of entries—she described in a melancholy filter how he would leave for training, coming home too exhausted to see her, much to his own disappointment, but just as much hers.

The entry of their last night together before he shipped out was an emotional rollercoaster. According to her, the day started out wonderful—Bucky had shown up at her place in full uniform with a new haircut and a bouquet of flowers.

_He told me he was going to buy me a late lunch and then we would stop by the expo before going dancing all night. But there was something in the way everything happened that I should have known something was wrong. I was just so blinded by his happy mood, I don't think I wanted to spoil it for him. Bucky just hadn't been Bucky in a while._

_It was what he asked me that began to tip his hand, I think. He asked if any of my friends were available for the evening._

"I won't be around for him anymore," he had begged, the soldier remembered suddenly. "I just want to find him someone—anyone who will bethere for him."

She apparently had found out after they'd enjoyed their night, as he was walking Connie and her friend home, that he was going to be shipped out the next morning. She'd been furious. Angry—shouting at him, hitting him, crying. And he had taken it all, apologizing profusely.

This was not a man he remembered being, the soldier decided. Entry after entry following his departure—each was the same in both tone and content. She described her increasing feelings of depression and anxiety of him being at war, wondering, worrying if he would come home breathing or in a box. Or worse—with a mind far too damaged by the war to be anything close to the charming man she'd come to know.

If only she knew…


	14. Chapter 14

_Okay so I'm considering quitting my job because I hate it so much…_

_ANYWAYS no school tomorrow. It's Professional Service Day and also our Health and Wellness Fair where us college kids look for internships and then go learn how not to be nerds. I'm just gonna go for my attendance mark and the free food._

_How many of you are out of school already? Our midterms just ended today (ACED THAT PSYCHOLOGY SHIZZ)…_

_Review with comments, questions, concerns, predictions, life story…etc._

**Chapter 14**

The Soldier sat reading her words with some foreign emotion taking hold in his chest. While he couldn't remember half of the things she tended to reminisce about in the months of entries that followed his departure, he felt for the young woman.

The emotions in his chest and the pit of his stomach froze when her writing turned frantic, her words barely forming sentences. She'd gotten word he was MIA. And she was broken. The entry was more of a list than paragraphs of words. Things she'd regretted—not spending more time with him, not looking after Steve for him, not telling him that, though they'd only known each other about a year, she loved him.

His metal hand was suddenly at his face. When he pulled it away, the metal glinted wetly. He was crying. The emotion in his chest bubbled up and left him in a choked, twisted sob. The more he felt like this, the better he _felt_.

At Hydra, he'd never felt anything. The Winter Soldier was not expected to _feel_. He was expected to do his job—his missions—without question, without emotions or opinions getting in the way. Feeling emotions—sadness, anger, worry—it was a welcome change, he decided.

XXX

"Yes, I'll be back in DC soon," Clara was muttering into a phone quietly across the room from Tony, who was working at his desk. "I'm not—I don't have specific dates yet, but we can schedule something for—" she flipped through a thick black planner quickly, "how about in a week and a half? I should be done with business here by then."

The door to the office suddenly opened and both occupants watched as Steve walked in and, noticing Clara on the phone, shut the door as gently as he could.

"You're early," Tony noted, returning to his work.

Steve's brows furrowed in confusion. "Are you—are you _actually working_? I thought Pepper—"

"Has the day off," Tony pressed, his tone shutting down the conversation.

"Oh no, I'm fine," Clara replied to her client when asked if everything was okay, snapping her back to her own conversation. "I've just been called out to New York to handle a bit of a special case. I'm passing it on to another doctor at the end of the week, I think."

"Apparently she still has a life," Tony commented to Steve, earning a nasty look from Clara.

"Okay, well, try not to do anything too stressful and we'll talk when I return." She shut her phone and dropped it into her bag at her feet, then slouched down into the chair and gave her attention to the man standing before her. "I don't know if he's awake yet, but there are a few things I'd like to go over with you before you see him, if you don't mind."

Steve pulled the chair in front of Tony's desk around so that he was facing her. "Setting some rules?"

"Of sorts," Clara smiled. "More like guidelines to help him—"

"It's alright, Dr. Maitland," he waved her away. "Whatever I need to do."

"Alright." She let out a breath and pulled a notebook from her bag, flipping to a few pages worth of notes before she spoke again. "Okay, so he's been remembering a few bits here but there're a few things I want to make you aware of—handling someone with amnesia paired with PTSD like this, I just want to handle this with care."

"Of course," Tony muttered from behind Steve.

"There are a few different types of amnesia—but in _his _case, I'm leaning towards what's called retrograde amnesia. Based on the reports I've read, when they found him, he remembered nothing about himself."

"You mean he had amnesia from the fall?" Steve clarified, wringing his hands in his lap.

"Possibly."

"That would actually make the most sense," Tony began, pushing away from his computer and moving to join their little group discussion across the room. "With no memories Hydra was basically given a blank super soldier. They could convince him of anything."

"And he would believe that?" Steve questioned, skeptical. "Hydra managed to turn him into exactly what we were fighting."

"The right wording and Hydra could manipulate him into believing he was doing good work," Clara said quietly. "But what I desperately want to avoid is false memory syndrome. This is when false memories are created through suggestion—intentional or otherwise. Things he imagines from the stories he's told—he might start to believe they're _memories _when they're just his imagination."

"So don't tell him stories," Steve guessed.

"Let _him _tell _you_. It's much better for him to find the memories himself, so to speak," she said. "I think he already questions what he remembers."

Tony glanced at the time on his watch. "You've got less than an hour before the doctor gets here," he said, turning away. "I've got a bit of work to do for the company, but I'll let you know when it's time."

"Thanks," Steve muttered as he and Clara left the room.

XXX

The clock on the wall ticked away the morning. The soldier had woken up soundlessly from a dreamless sleep in time to watch the sun slowly light the room. What time was the procedure? Someone was bound to come collect him when it was time—or rather, if Steve was there.

He laid on the bed until mid-morning, sorting through his thoughts slowly and carefully in a way he had never been able to before. With Hydra he was told what to think and when. Sure, he'd had his own thoughts, but they were short and fleeting.

The book lying on top of the blankets next to him was like a beacon. He couldn't stop staring at it, but made no immediate move to open it. The urge to pick up reading where he'd left off was warring in his mind. He didn't want to know what happened next, because he could give a pretty damned good guess.

It was a while—almost an hour, if the angle of the light streaming in from the window was anything to go by—before he picked up the diary and took a seat beneath the window, back against the wall.

_He's gone. _She wrote, the words nearly scratched into the page. There had been a long gap—almost three weeks between her last entry and this one. _The funeral was last week. It was both expected and unexpected. He'd been MIA for a while. I got word from his parents—Steve had a letter sent that Bucky had been found and rescued with the rest of the men. But it was fleeting. _

_I feel like I was teased. I feel like someone filled me from head to toe with wonderful hope only to rip it from my flesh in the most painful way possible. I think the worst of it was watching them bury an empty box._

_I feel so awful inside and my mind can't keep the horrible thoughts from coming. Where was his body? No doubt dumped somewhere, left somewhere to rot as another nameless soldier, another among thousands._

_I'm trying to cope, trying hard to move on, because I am too young to waste my life over this—as horrible and heartless a thought that is, I know Bucky wouldn't want me to mourn him for the rest of my life. But for right now, there is nothing I want to do. I just want to cry…_

The soldier flipped through the last few sporadic, short entries until the end of the book—the last date was several months after his funeral.

The tone of the first entry of the next book, dated a few years after the last, was entirely different. It was more chipper, much like the first few entries he had read. She detailed for a few entries about a new man she had met. William Warner.

Connie's headstone passed through his mind's eye at the recognition of his last name. Something twitched in his metal arm unnervingly and he shut the diary. He didn't want to read about that. Not just yet. Not when he could only barely remember the feelings he'd had for her.

A glance up at the clock on the wall told him morning was almost over, and that someone would be coming to collect him soon for the procedure. So, not wanting to waste time, he opened the last, most recent diary, and flipped to the last entry.

_I am going to die today. I can feel it. I welcome it. Even surrounded by my family—my children and their children and their spouses—I feel too lonely. I'm ready to be with William again. It's been so long since I've seen him. Sometimes I feel like I'm going to go mad missing him._

_But Bucky…I don't think a day goes by I don't sit and wonder. I still believe we were supposed to be together. Rebecca passed away a few months ago and I believe she is finally with her brother. I'd like to hope he has someone up there—though I know he has Steve with him._

_Just once. I'd like to see Bucky just once before I die—maybe his ghost. Penny talks about ghosts all the time. If his ghost could come see me once before I die, just so I can tell him I love him—that he died a great man in my eyes, that I looked after his little sister as much as I could. _

_That is the thing about getting old that I have noticed recently. I've been unintentionally making lists of things in my head that I wish I could do before I die. Did Bucky do this when he realized he was going to die? Maybe he realized this when he got the draft notice. It would explain his behavior, I think._

Was someone knocking at the door? The sudden twisting of metal, a short scratching sound, and the door slammed against the wall with a loud bang. The Soldier's eyes jumped up to the man and woman in the doorway, eyes finally leaving the page.

"Bucky," the man gasped, crossing the room in a few long strides. He knelt down and reached out, but the soldier slapped his hand away and stood, dragging his flesh hand across his eyes when he was turned away from the other two, discreetly rubbing the wetness from his eyes.

"Are you alright?" Clara demanded.

"I'm fine," he snapped.

"Can you give us a bit, Dr. Maitland?" Steve murmured to her, receiving a nod. Clara closed the door as best she could without a knob and Steve waited until they couldn't hear her footfalls anymore. "Bucky—"

"I'm fine," he grumbled, a little more unconvincingly. He tilted his head back and sighed.

"No you're not, Buck," Steve began, sitting gently on the edge of the bed, watching his friend like a hawk. "But that's alright. It's not easy—I know what it's like to get a bit of a culture shock."

"This is more than a culture shock," he replied dryly.

Steve let out a humorless laugh and nodded. "Yeah, but that's the best way I could think to describe it."

He paced in front of the bed slowly, Steve's eyes on him. "How did you do it?" he muttered. "When they found you—how did you not go insane? How did you know who you were? How did you know what they were telling you was true?"

"I didn't," Steve said bluntly. "But _I _had my memories—"

"How can I trust those?" the Soldier snapped, stopping his movements. "How d I know those things I remember are _mine_?"

"You think Hydra somehow gave you fake memories?" Steve concluded.

"Wouldn't surprise me," he said bitterly.

Steve took a long slow breath and then looked back at his friend. "Tell me what you remember," he said firmly. "I'll see if it matches up with what I remember. Tell me about Connie."

His lips twitched and he let out a soft, bitter laugh. "Clara tell you about her?"

"Yeah, but I wanna know what _you _know about her."

Tongue running quickly between his pressed lips, he took a seat beneath the window and slid a diary towards Steve. "So, from what I _recall_," he began slowly, "we met at a bar…"


	15. Chapter 15

**So yeah sorry for the lack of updates. Been a very hectic few weeks. I was in artist alley at Animazement, then I quit my job (which I'm still dealing with the fallout) and I go to a year-round college so I've got 3 weeks left of classes and I'm working on exams now and a whole bunch of drama with these eighteen year olds that I am too old for…**

REAVIEW WITH COMMENTS QUESTIONS CONCERNS OR IF YOU JUST WANNA TALK because I love all my readers.

**Chapter 15**

The two sat quietly in the room, no sounds but gentle breathing and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall. He had told Steve practically everything he remembered—Connie, them—but he left out the few sporadic fragments of memories—visions of snow and cold, of blood and pain.

"Why did you want to see me?" Steve asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"A friend is someone you have a mutual bond with," he said. "I'd like to think we've _bonded _a bit."

"What?" Steve looked up from his lap towards the man on the floor.

"That's what I said to you the first time we met. I pulled those thugs off you." He hesitated, jaw working to voice his next thoughts. "I trusted you. Then, as a six year old, and even in the war, I trusted you. And something in me wants to trust you now."

"Buck—"

"I want to know if all of these memories are mine—not Hydra's—not stories. That they're real and they are mine." His set a determined, hard gaze on the man who called himself his friend.

"Bucky," Steve breathed. "Everything you've told me—all of the stuff I was there for_, I remember that_."

He blinked and looked away, nodding slowly. "Thanks, Steve."

"I wish I had saved you on that train."

"Then I would be dead right now. You wish I was dead?"

"No. I wish you had gotten to live the rest of your life."

"I've killed people."

"So have I," Steve snapped right back. "Neither of us are saints, Buck. One man's freedom fighter is another man's terrorist. You were just fighting for a cause you never would have believed in on your own."

"From what I remember…" he started, but shook his head and slumped back into the wall.

"What?" Steve prodded, knowing he shouldn't push, but curiosity getting the best of him.

"From the things I remember…It was like—I was always protecting you, you know? And then suddenly…suddenly you didn't need me anymore. You came in and single-handedly saved us all. You didn't need me to save you anymore." Steve opened his mouth to continue, but the soldier hopped to his feet and began to pace in front of him. "My memories as the Winter Soldier—as Hydra's assassin—there's a lot of them that I remember. I started remembering those before I even left Hydra.

"Every time I went to pull the trigger, to finish the job, I would hear a voice in my head telling me _no_. I always ignored it. Then one day—I heard that _same _voice yelling to me from across a bridge. It called me Bucky." He stopped pacing and looked up at Steve. "Hydra could shock my memories into repression as much as they wanted, but some things were just too stubborn to stay down."

Steve grinned. "That's me. That little guy from Brooklyn that was too stupid not to run away from a fight." His smile faltered when his friend didn't react to his own words, reminding him that, as Bucky-like as this man was right now, he was not yet Bucky.

"Captain Rogers, Mr. Stark would like to inform you that everything is prepped and waiting for you and Sergeant Barnes on basement level five." The AI's voice echoed in the small bland room and Steve stood.

"Thanks, JARVIS."

"Do you ever get used to that?" he muttered to Steve as they left the room.

Steve laughed. "Takes a while, but almost."

XXX

The doctor Tony found was a tall, older man with thick black and gray peppered hair. He was wearing a designer suit and if Clara didn't know any better, she would have thought he was a CEO from another company coming to talk to Tony.

But the white gloves on his hands were a tiny tip off.

"So, Stark admits he found you through the SHIELD files that were leaked online," Clara began conversationally as the doctor removed his jacket, draping it over the back of a chair.

"You're British. Not Ms. Potts, then?" he asked quietly.

"No, Pepper apparently has the day off."

"Anyways—I've known for some time now that SHIELD has been watching me. They're not always as slick as they like to think they are."

Clara smirked at that. "I'd say they're beginning to realize that."

He threw a small smile in her direction as he rolled up his sleeves. "But since I wasn't doing anything _wrong _or _illegal_, I figured there was no reason they'd come after me, so I let them go on with their games."

"Well that's good," she said. "Because thanks to them we were able to find you."

"Yes. Tony sent me some of the scans Dr. Banner took. Should be easy to remove the tech without having to intrude too much." He pulled a few tools out of his bag and piled them on a metal table Tony had wheeled in. "Should be a no brainer."

"Cute," Clara rolled her eyes.

"Found them in the elevator," a voice announced. Tony led the two super soldiers into the small, concrete room. Clara watched the solder's metal fingers twitch, his eyes darting around the room. She could sense the copious amounts of unease rolling off him. Though, he was calm, and she smiled inside at that. Their talk must have gone better.

"Steve Rogers." He held out his hand to shake the doctor's.

"Dr. Stephen Strange."

"Dr. Strange is one of the best neurosurgeons out there," Tony praised.

Dr. Strange smiled at his patient, who was silently studying him and the room, and held out his right hand. Clara bit her lip and watched the internal struggle play out on his face before he lifted his own right hand up. Without missing a beat, the doctor switched hands. "Tony has told me all about what's going on and I should have this little problem fixed in no time. We are going to need to sedate you, though—Dr. Maitland told me about the last time—"

"It's fine," he interjected. "Not sure how much you'll need, though—whatever Hydra did to me, my body burns through it."

"It was in your file—the amount they used to sedate you on bad days," Clara murmured to him. "I just wanted to ask you about it because—"

"It's fine," he repeated.

Tony clapped his hands together and grinned. "Alright. Let's get this show on the road. It's date night and I can't skip again. I'm gonna go find Banner. Prep away. Let JARVIS know if you need anything."

"Thank you, Mr. Stark," Dr. Strange muttered, continuing to prepare his station. He turned to his patient and motioned towards the gurney off to their left. "If you could remove your shirt and hop up, we'll get an IV ready."

Clara followed him to the gurney and took his shirt from him when he offered it to her. Wordlessly she folded it and put it on the counter along the wall. He was scanning the room again. One door, no windows, and only the necessities in the room. His eyes finally landed on Steve, who was standing a few paces away, arms crossed over his chest.

"A little backwards, isn't it?" he commented as he hopped up onto the gurney and lay down. "I was always the one watching _you _in the hospitals."

Steve chuckled. "Yeah, well, you can't always be the support. I'm gonna go help Dr. Strange get everything he needs." He patted his friends arm before leaving, but his place was quickly replaced by Dr. Banner, wheeling a machine over to him.

"Ready?" He waited for a nod before he held up a needle and some medical tape. "This is the IV." With gentle fingers, he flipped over the flesh arm and swabbed the back of his hand before slipping the needle in like a pro.

Clara's fingers ghosted over his metal ones when he let out a small breath as the needle went in. Just because he had taken so much damage over the years didn't mean he'd become immune to pain, she reminded herself.

"We're trying to do this as quickly as we can without jeopardizing your safety since this kind of procedure is kind of illegal." He messed with the IV stand, pressing a few buttons and adjusting the hanging bag. A new needle appeared in his hand and he pushed it into the IV line. "This is the sedative. You'll feel sleepy, but it won't knock you out entirely. I'll give that a few minutes and then give you the final dose." Banner pulled an oxygen mask over his face before checking the IV one last time, then joining Dr. Strange on the other side of the room.

Clara stepped closer to his bed, fingers still brushing over his metal ones. "Feeling it yet?"

"A little…" he breathed.

"It'll be over before you know it. Then you won't have to worry about Hydra."

"I'll still worry about them…"

"Yeah," she relented. "But not as much. And Steve will always help you out."

"You're going back to DC." His face had begun to soften, the worry lines on his forehead smoothing out, eyebrows no longer constantly furrowed.

She pursed her lips. "You'll be fine without me. I'll talk to Steve and see if we can't find you someone better suited for you. Steve's apparently got a friend named Sam that runs a center for war vets."

He let out a small, unfocused laugh. "The bird-man? I clipped his wings."

Clara smiled. "Yeah, just make sure to apologize for that."

"He was shooting at me."

"Well, apologize for breaking his toy and I'm sure he'll apologize, too."

"I'll try it—because you told me to," he breathed. "I trust you."

Clara blinked at his admission, but his eyes had closed. She knew he wasn't asleep, though, and he definitely wasn't in his right mind. "I know," she sighed. "And I promise I'll still be here when you wake up."

"Tape something to the ceiling to remind me I'm not at Hydra when I wake up," he requested, pointing vaguely to the ceiling with the hand he was still clutching her fingers with.

Clara laughed but nodded. "Sure. I'll think of something."

"Alright, this dose is gonna knock you out completely," Banner muttered when he returned with another syringe.

"Dr. Banner and I will be here the whole time and Dr. Strange seems like he knows what he's doing," Clara murmured. "You…..you'll be fine." His eyes closed once the medication was in and Banner was walking away again.

"Clara." He reached up with his flesh hand to pull the mask away from his face, but she caught his hand and pulled it away. "No. Clara."

"What? Leave that there." She swatted his hand away once more.

"My name," he whispered airily.

"Yeah?" His grip of her hand tightened a little, not enough to hurt her, but it was firm.

"Call me….Bucky…" he managed before he was completely gone.

Clara smiled and looked up at Dr. Strange, who was adjusting a medical mask over his face.

"He out?" Tony asked and she nodded. "Well, let's get this party started then."

"I don't see how this is a party," Clara sighed, wheeling the gurney towards them with Banner's help.

"He's not gonna attack us in his sleep, is he?" Tony asked as they all gathered around.

"He's not a rabid animal—he's a trained weapon. He doesn't attack for the hell of it—it's planned and precise," Clara explained, a little bit peeved at the idea that he was that uncontrollable. "My belief is that Hydra did something to limit the effects of PTSD. There are a few instances in his file towards the beginning of his _treatment _where he attacked fellow Hydra members, but there was just a foot note claiming it had been handled."

"But as he regains parts of his memory, there's nothing stopping the PTSD symptoms from…happening," Steve argued.

"In any case, any objections to me disabling his arm during the procedure?" Tony muttered, pulling a small screwdriver from his pocket. When there were no objections, he got to work.


	16. Chapter 16

_SO glad some of you got the Dr. Strange cameo :D It's okay if you didn't, but I highly recommend the Doctor Strange animated movie on Netflix because it was really good and my best friend Ryan demanded I watch it so that he could be Bucky's doctor, hence the change from Tony's doctor to Strange. There will be another cameo next chapter that you all might not expect. I was gonna have it at the beginning of this chapter but decided to wait because I want to space out the cameos a bit…_

_AND I AM ONLY POSTING RIGHT NOW BECAUSE MY ROOMMATE IS A BITCH. That is all._

_Review :D_

**Chapter 16**

The medication put him into a shallow but dreamless sleep. To him, it felt like he blinked and he was waking up again. But he felt cold. So, so cold. Numbness stretched from his left arm across his chest and down his back. Like when he was pulled out of cryostasis, the familiar feeling haunting him.

Bucky's eyes flew open, the light stinging for half a second, focusing slowly. The first thing they focused on was a crude cartoon drawing of what could only be him—a peachy blob with dark hair and a silver left arm, smiling ridiculously with a thumbs up.

'_Not at Hydra. Please don't break things. -Clara' _it read beneath in both English and barely readable Russian.

A chill of relief flooded through him and he felt his eyelids fall just as the dark haired woman appeared above him. He felt safe for the first time in a long time. Tired, but safe. Clara's mouth was moving but he only heard white noise as he drifted into a deep sleep.

When he opened his eyes again, he was on his stomach perched just over the ridge of a hill in the woods staring down the scope of a rifle. He took a breath and held it, aiming carefully so as to not accidentally nick the man in red, white, and blue.

With a snap, the rifle went off and another Nazi fell at Steve's feet. He remembered this, helping Steve take down Nazi's from the shadows. Letting Steve take all the focus, all the praise, while he did the dirty work from the trenches in the shadows.

He didn't mind that part—that's not where the intense bitter emotions stemmed from. Because that was the type of stuff the army _trained _him to do. No. He was bitter because his kind, loving, _gentle _friend was out here tossing people around, _killing _them. This was what Bucky was afraid of. They turned his gentle friend into a weapon.

Steve saluted him from afar and scoped out the rest of the area, taking off when he was sure it was clear of enemy soldiers. Bucky pressed his lips together and stood, gathering his equipment quickly and quietly, following after his friend.

He let out a deep breath and opened his eyes. The sign that had been taped to the ceiling was still there. He heard a page rustle and turned his head towards the man sitting in a chair in next to his bed. Bucky noticed they had moved him from the room in the basement back up to the room he'd been staying in before.

"How are you feeling?" The man shut his book and scooted to the edge of his seat.

"Weird being in the opposite position isn't it," Bucky grunted. Steve said nothing, but his eyes danced around the room. Bucky tried to lift his hands to his face, but only the flesh one moved. A bit taken aback, he looked down at the shoulder.

"Tony just disabled it during the procedure for safety reasons. He wanted to wait until you were awake to reconnect it."

"Who's safety, yours or mine?" he muttered, using his flesh and blood hand to poke around at the bandages.

"Both," Steve replied firmly. "How's your head?"

Taking a moment to assess before speaking, he ran a tongue between his lips. "Brain function is fractionally slower, and response to arm is malfunctioning. There is no pain."

Steve took a breath slowly and Bucky realized he'd responded like he would have to one of his handlers at Hydra—short and to the point, listing out every problem to be fixed.

"Dr. Strange said it would be a day or two before your accelerated healing picks up again," Steve explained. "I'm not too sure what he did—he explained it to Tony, and he understood."

"I'll be fine."

"You will, Buck. Hydra can't find you now, and even if they did, you have friends here to back you up," Steve tried to assure him. "You're not going to be forced to do anything—"

"Zola didn't make me a killer, Steve," Bucky pressed quietly, eyes zoned in on Steve's. He moved to sit up, pushing the pillows against the headboard. "I was already a killer."

"There's a difference between a soldier and a trained assassin," Steve ground out.

"Is there?" Bucky asked simply. "Is there a difference? I killed people in the war and I killed people over the last seventy years."

"I killed people during the war, too, Bucky. So has Bruce. So has Natasha and Clint and the hundreds of thousands of soldiers since the war we fought in," Steve argued.

"We're going in circles," Bucky sighed. He pulled a hand down his face. "Where's Clara?"

"She's down in the cafeteria getting something to eat and talking to one of her clients over the phone." Steve paused, hands gripping the armrests of the chair as if he were going to stand. "Do you want me to go get her?"

"No, no," he said. "Don't bother her." Bucky paused then looked back at Steve. "Where do I go from here, Steve?" His voice was quiet, but his heart was loud in his ears. "What now?"

"We take it day by day," he replied easily, calmly. Bucky wasn't sure if Steve had already thought through this or not—if he _hadn't_, it didn't show. "You can stay here in the tower or come back with me to DC."

Back to DC? Clara was going back to DC, he could—the thought halted in his mind instantly. No, he couldn't bother her more than she offered. But did he want to stay in this tower with Tony and Pepper?

"We don't have to figure that out now," Steve interrupted his thoughts. "Like I said—we'll take it day by day, play it by ear. I won't make you do anything you don't want to."

"What did you do?" he finally dared to ask. "When you woke up after…"

Steve shook his head slowly. "I had Fury. Fury helped me…adjust. I'm not gonna lie, Buck, it's gonna be hard."

"I'm not looking for easy," he ground out. "I'm looking for….I don't know, _meaning_? Redemption."

Steve stood and wiped his palms on the front of his jeans. "Like I said, you have a few days to decide what you want to do, and even then you can change your mind. You're free now."

"It doesn't feel like it," he grumbled, dropping his head back into the pillow.

"Fury called it acculturative stress or something. Ask Clara. It's a psychological term," Steve explained. "It's normal—normal for _us_."

"Us…"

"Yeah, I've always got your back, Bucky." He patted Bucky's leg firmly and headed for the door. "I'm gonna go find us some food. I'll be back soon."

Bucky licked his lips and slid back down into the bed, rolling onto his side, holding his metal arm close to his chest. Everything was changing, and he was scared.


End file.
